Family MattersWhen I was a little girl
Mommy would sometimes sit At her place in the kitchen And hug her shoulders and cry As though her heart would break. I was little, I thought maybe I’d done something. I’d hug Her knees and say I was sorry. She’d pick me up and rock me And say, “Oh honey, it’s not you.” And then she’d say the same thing Every time, like an incantation, “How long can love last? I need to know if I’m going to hang on, How long it lasts.” It didn’t make any sense to me. She never did any of this Around my brothers or Daddy, So it was kind of our secret But it was more mystery than secret. We were a normal family And life was on an even keel. Daddy was halfway through A forty-year career at the Ford plant And Mom had four kids and a house to manage. Most holidays Dad’s brother, Uncle Grant, Came over from Illinois with his family. The boys all played touch football, We girls locked my bedroom door and told secrets. When the guys came in The boys took over the TV room And the Dads went to the basement For beer and cigars. The wives were in the kitchen Doing the food and sharing their own secrets. Some of them. Twenty years later the family Was together in a hospital Around Mommy’s deathbed. She asked to speak to me alone And she gave me a very special task. As soon as I could get the house to myself I got a stool and went to the hall closet That had held so many Christmas presents For so many years. On the top shelf, in a nondescript bag Was a Quaker Oats box, sealed shut. Inside there were two black and white photos Of Uncle Grant in his Navy uniform, One alone, one with Mommy. There was a four-leafed clover Taped to a little square of cardboard With tape so old it was brown, A little cloth bag of seashells, And a packet of letters That I had been told not to read Rolled up and tied with a ribbon. Tell a woman not to read Her mother’s love letters? Honestly! But after the first one I knew she was right. I put them back in the box And when I had the opportunity, Destroyed everything as I had been told. Another twenty years went by, And now my time is close. I’ve begun writing some stories of the family For the kids, grandkids, and those to follow. I thought hard about this story and left it out. Some things go to the grave Because that’s the best place for them. But it’s hard and it’s painful That a passion like theirs Should be lost in a black tunnel of time Without trace or memory.
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