Wrist Bones

( prose poetry )


I can still recall people in a family
of previous generations, but who
had lived beyond the usual sum of
years as was always shown from
statistics in encyclopedias seen in
everyone’s home, bought from
door-to-door salesmen, and paid
for on a monthly installment plan.

I was born towards the end of life
for many of the story-tellers in the
family enriching my imagination
since the first memories: of sitting
on a large, oval rug hand-braided
by monks in the local monastery.

During the gatherings for holidays,
showers, baptisms and wakes, and
starting before I could read or write
or nearly walk, I would sit wedged
between my father’s shoes to listen,
enrapt, while his father regaled us.

Some sitting nodding their heads
and mouthing ‘oh yes, I remember’
while others would sit with ankles
crossed, eating walnut bundt cake.

As the stories of crossing the Great
Plains, and of the Great Depression
a half-century later rang out, and
we leaned closer so as not to miss
a word or spill a single drop of tea
(my little cup from my tea set from
Christmas - had milk with Ovaltine),

A few of the women, including my
mother, had paused in preparing
food in the large kitchen, to look
out and watch while drying hands
on their checkered cotton aprons.

The aroma of roast beef from the
juices sizzling, and rhubarb pies
baking, was like perfume had they
been wearing any. And I could see
into the dining room where, on the
long table with fine heirloom lace
linen decorated with old Dresden,
pewter, porcelain and poinsettias.

And so it was on this one occasion
after my grandfather had finished,
and shown to his place of honor to a
begonia-festooned wing chair, the
time had come for a truly special
honor as my great-grandmother
rose almost regally from the other
matching wing chair. Wide-eyed,
I could see that her ruffled frock
was like the chair of flowers.

This was only my third time that I
could remember having seen her.
But even then I knew there couldn’t
be many other families, no matter
where, with anyone like her.

A surviving twin, in those days,
she played the piano and spoke
French. She did watercolors, wrote
children’s verse for books she also
illustrated. Became a teacher and
taught Latin, English and Music.
I would not be surprised if I found
out tomorrow she had also walked
atop the Great Wall of China.

So there she stood, all four feet ten
inches of her which on that day was
statuesque to me. Family and guests
extended a warm applause with
genuine smiles for the elder who
was an icon to all in the clan.

Still between Father’s shoes, I bang
my little hands together and chirp
like a bird, “Mi-mi, Mi-mi!” I could
never manage to say ‘grandmother’,
so that became her name forever,
even after she had passed before the
next Christmas arrived. Even if you
never met, she’d always be our Mimi.

She gave a little bow to all in the
main room, and the kitchen, as
oven timers went off, one by one.
It sounded like a flock of pigeons
as we tittered with polite laughter.

Before continuing,
she put a red and green drawstring
bag at the foot of our holiday family
tree among the other gifts that were
given in the exchange that evening.

From a vast repertoire she regaled,
of travels through a long life. Her
words remain in my own mental
scrapbook, the last Christmas she
spent with us.  And before we all
rose up to go into the formal dining
room to tuck into a holiday feast,
Mimi recited a poem as her eyes
welled up with love and emotion:

When you were little racing thru’ the grass
While playing with a simple rock and sling,
You only knew that day would never pass,
For only children know a simple thing.

To stay the way you are like Peter Pan
Is everything you wish for when you’re big.
Eat lollipops and gumdrops all you can
Till there’s no room for apple suckling pig.

I know to be a child seems lots of fun,
But trust me, it gets sweeter later on.
A springtime ends before it has begun,
For youth won’t last forever ‘till it’s gone.

Let’s all hold hands it’s time to say a prayer
In thanks for all the blessings of the year.
The bounty given us which now we share,
Our hearts go out that we are gathered here.

After dinner, during the exchange
of presents, Mom put me in my PJs
with the bunny feet - it was getting
late for every baby bunny like me.

Years later, when I was old enough
to own such things, I was given two
beautiful matching bracelets that
Mimi wanted me to have after she
was gone. The family gave them to
me on my 15th birthday. They are    
precious and delicate.  I call them
Mimi’s wrist bones.




Photo of the matching bracelets by Jade Pandora