Crossings, ODIN II Options

[Cyn]

Crossings

I. To a Life Unknown
   
I can see my grandmother,  
on the ship from England,  
her books and purse upon her lap,    
tightly, traversing the great expanse,    
   
on the way
to a life unknown.
 
At 30, a spinster,    
to find a mate,    
 
she leaves a lush life    
of birding and golf, a botanist father
for whom orchids are named  
 
and a mother, disappointed  
by a daughter who prefers
hiking, walking    
stick in hand,

to serving suitors tea.
 
II. Thousands of Miles Apart

Crossing the waves
of chance and change,    
I picture my grandfather,  
on a boat,

from Ireland;  
from famine,

from fear and unrest;  
 
a minister's son,    
an Orangeman's boy,    
   
a potato farmer. He plows
his way, through sea and soil,
to the interior of Canada,

and he takes a room
in the boarding house
of my grandmother’s friend,  
   
where their proper paths cross  
briefly, barely;  
and they embark on their affair
of letters and of words,    
   
an affair that persists    
over time and distance,    
   
my grandfather adrift
on prairies of grain,    
my grandmother held
in the tight lap
of polite society,
   
thousands of miles apart.  


III. With Her Wedding Cake Upon Her Knees
 
I trace the map
of courteous correspondence,
   
Its solemn slow crossing, to each,  
in turn, describing day to day
happenings, ardor,

infatuations long passed,    
long unfelt.    
   
And since she is no longer young,    
and he is the only man to ask, she agrees,    
after years of posted passion,    
to marry him.    
   
I imagine my grandmother,
her words still remembered,    
traveling by train, for days,
sitting up,  
   
her wedding cake upon her broad lap,
her thick knees unable to meet,

all the while moving
resolutely forward,    
toward an unknown life    
   
with a man
to whom she has barely spoken    
a living word;
to a role she is ill prepared
to fill,    
 
a grain inspector’s wife,    
a confidante    
 
of secrets
she does not want,    
and refuses,
to know.


IV. And Chikadees On Her Head  
   
I see her as I saw her  
when I was a child,
 
before Parkinson’s,
before disease
took what freedom she had.    
   
I glimpse her,
scarfed against the cold,    
wrapped in an old fur coat;
   
which had crossed with her from England,    
with a hand-carved tip-top table,    
a scarred sea-chest
with her trousseau;
 
china and silver and the fine family name.    
   
She walks to get the mail,    
crossing the whitewashed lane    
bordered with snow and
wagon-wheels.  
 
She has treats in her fur-lined pockets,    
sunflower seeds pursed in her lips,
   
and chickadees alighting
on her shoulders,  
and on her head.


V. The Life She Was Meant to Have

My grandmother tells me    
how grand her life will be  
   
after my grandfather dies,  
something he has alternately
threatened and promised
for years.  
     
She will live on Vancouver Island    
and have a garden again.    
   
She was there once,    
the garden attendant politely amazed
by her knowledge
of each Latin name, as he wheeled her    
 
large chair-ridden frame    
through the exhibits, one by one.  
   
She pictures herself,
on the ferry once again,  
her bird books in her lap,    
   
spanning the sound, to the life    
she was meant to have.    
   
Grandmother’s final crossing
cast off far too soon,  
and did not wait for her to live
her island garden dream.  
 
I have her tip-top table,    
her beloved books of birds,
and the painting of hydrangea,  
its looping Latin name,  
 
inscribed, along with mine,    
on the back.    
   
© Cynthia Neely

[Cleo_Serapis]

Thank you for your entry into Odin's Opposition!  :troy:

Perhaps you’ll rise up, drink from the Well of Wisdom and be crowned the ‘bringer of victory’?

Best of luck in the battle!  :vic:

~Mosaic Musings Staff