Bry Meister, In Honor of Bradstreet

Bry Meister

In Honor of Bradstreet

I. The crisp pages and smooth lines of print belong to you, who has labored and worried. You have pushed and pulled, forging lines of silver and gold, mining amethyst and quartz, to create a kaleidoscope of language. Your mind strums a note which is followed by another, another, another, until an orchestra finds the rhythm, pulsing with the heartbeat of your firstborn.

II. They claim to have done so in your honor, exposing the naked form of your child to the frost and hellfire of the world’s view, and you think of the repercussions. What would your husband say? What would the pastor think? The men watch you hang the laundry, your back to them, knowing your innermost thoughts have been placed at their feet. Do they understand what it is to nurse the baby?

III. Read it yourself – examine each word, run your finger along the print, and feel the phrases bubble in your bloodstream.

It is your duty to give life and to care for it, to cultivate a culture around it – to educate. Speak to the babe, those lines you know so well, Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart – for you yourself are clothed with strength and dignity.

IV. My darling, what if I were to tell you that you are well-known, and your work is a symbol of feminine strength? Would you thank your Lord and Savior, would you hide behind your shutters?

Dearest Anne, your words light fireplaces, fluff pillows, sprinkle flour over yeast, scrub petticoats, and cradle babies’ blossom heads to pink-tinted breasts. You have written generations of women beyond you.

V. As an author to another, hold your book tight, but do not suffocate it so that it does not meet the world – breathe life upon its pages and whisper encouragement along its spine. It is quaking, shivering in the snow and sunlight, dressed in rags and barefoot. Wrap a scarf around its shoulders, place a kiss upon the cover, and let the world finish dressing it.