J<ry
the body whispers, and which I translate now, listening sage of my puttering heart.
to
the
mes~
Lilac. Wind. Hayloft. Lake. Mo,her. And what is passed down from woman CO woman through the years in the guise of gloves and garters and prayer books and foot~ prints and poems is only this, the essemial self, moments of remem~ bered joy that make it possible to live. There is my mother drifting away across the lake, where nQ[hing bue moonlight and music can reach her. And there is my grandmother, at the side of the road, holding her candle and waiting to learn.
Now. This. Always. My mother was not my mother. She was water. My grandmother was not my grandmother. She was a flame. And I am a swallow, startled by light.
Summer 2004
137