Under The Tundra

I strain toward the present

moment, tiptoeing across

frozen river

memories instrumental in

splintering me

thousands of sharp pieces

held together in a purely

illusionary woman

you see before you.

Be gentle with your grandmother,

I urge this boisterous

little boy, who knows my heart-

child is always

eager to play

out the stuck places.

We wriggle and jump.

Down dog to find missing pieces.

He nestles into my safe

lap for stories

and we learn

we only reach now

together, holding space

that includes prior pains

we can rewrite

when we go back

to the beginning

with strong new love.

 

Inspired by:  Memories, Instrumental, River and Splinter.

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A Spin Through Time

We wear the burdens of our ancestors’ trauma in unexamined layers. Our hidden history is alive. We can repeat the same horrific patterns or we can look, re-member, and connect. ~ Victoria Stuart 

My grandfather’s Model-A was the only car

in the neighborhood in 1930. He could afford

it as a carpenter needed

to reach even the most distant sites

and fast. Decades later, his grandson flew

over oceans, in a private airplane to inspect

and give his blessing to potential projects.

Like an evanescent dream coded in our DNA

the road ahead demands we recycle

the rejected past. When he was 2, in 1900,

my mother’s father often sat in the lap

of his 100-year-old great-grandmother, lulled

by her rocking chair, wide open to receive

what was never later investigated. Just family

tales. She arrived by covered wagon at eight;

her father felled trees — long venerated and circled

around — to widen the paths

Natives had used for generations.

Her spine-tingling recounting of people

lingering despite the laws and guns,

the forced marches to leave, the whites

uneasy at night, having built

their cabins in orchards lovingly planted

by people they called savages

to hide their guilt and shame.

Have the original inhabitants vanished

without a trace? Ah, no, I hear

voices at the 4th of July barbecue,

masking in snark and malice

the fear of immigrants;

at the root, the unspeakable: what if

we

let them in

and they do to us

what we did to them,

then rewrite a history

from which we are drastically curtailed?

Fandango’s Prompt: Curtail

Alan’s Recycling Bin: Layers

Daily Addictions Prompt: Afford

3TC: Model A, Road, Airplane

Word of the Day Challenge: Evanescent

RDP Trace