Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

Clara was our Great Grandmother.
They carried her in,
Placed her in the white bed by the
living room window,
And propped her against pillows.
My brothers and I called her ‘Little Gran’,
Because she didn’t walk and she looked small in
the bed.
Grandmother was Gran, who moved quickly, and who
had a very straight back.

Little Gran never got moody, although tears often
showed on her face.
She cried out when they lifted her to a chair
While they changed her bed.
Mother and Gran, before they began their work,
Took coals from the fire,
Piled them in a pan on the hearth,
Tossed in Grandfather’s cigar ends, saved from
his Christmas gifts.
Saying they needed to cover the smell.

I remember the feeling in that room on those days,
heavy as the smoke that curled near the ceiling.
No one spoke as they turned the mattress, but the
two womens’ mouths were straight lines.
The resentment of child toward parent was clear,
it swirled in the air,
perhaps joined by that drawn from the walls, product
of strong feelings from ancestral generations.
Perhaps those feelings do not die.
Little Gran saw my expression, and her smile spoke
to me of calm and endurance.

They put her in the clean bed, fluffed her pillows,
brought her tea and biscuits.
Pink cabbage roses in crystal on the brick windowsill.
I sat on her bed, waiting,
for her crooked fingers to ruffle my hair.
The room settle back, smoke up the chimney,
Heavy feelings soaked back into the walls.
Gran did the ironing,
Mother picked up her knitting,
and Little Gran quizzed me on spelling.

Still the feeling of women, these four
And all those who had gone before,
Mothers and daughters, anger and loving,
Life taking comfort in small things
Knowledge passed along, and not a word had been said.