Power of Poetry

This week I received a poem from my aunt in America. She and I have this wonderful bond - like mother and daughter - it's special - unique - I can talk to her about so many different things. We are avid supporters of each other - egging each other on and showing our support with our various ventures. She's always been writing poetry - quietly in the background in her own special way. Marking momentous occasions - the passing of time - the anniversary of the passing of a loved one. This week the poem was about me and my daughter. The story of our two lives weaving in and out of hers - her reflections and observations so diligently and carefully researched. It is not a sad poem but I cried big tears when I read it because I was so profoundly touched by her amazing insight into my life and her incredible observation to detail. 

Here it is for you to read as well. I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments.

Replications

The path is long , both real and remembered—

and it winds on into the years ahead.

A little girl takes first steps in overalls

between the snapdragons and catnip—

her Granny and her mother lean with arms

outstretched in glad welcome.   Then baptism

by the family priest with a scallop shell

near the pond with iris and daylilies,

shy deer and bold frogs, when her daddy

returns from Vietnam.  She’s the eldest, who

presides with Bunny over her brother’s

and her cousins’ christenings, in London,

after the whole family moved back.  See, she

holds a tiny fish for her just younger cousin,

because at three he’s overwhelmed by his catch. 

She conducts them all on bumper cars

at a carousel by the beach in Brittany.  Always

their senior, she advises on crossing the street,

choosing a college, finding jobs, then— in a blink,

it is she who is married with a baby girl— herself,

in turn, the eldest of her American cousins—

with dozens more in Tipperary where she lives.   

The path weaves generations across the ocean—

fastening families to their sense of home.

At eleven, our colleen writes a cooking blog,

wears a uniform.   She’s generous like her mother,

shepherds her little cousin to be a flower girl

in her uncle’s island wedding.   An only child,

she adores her role as helper.  Last summer

at her grandparents’ farm, she put the newest

baby cousin to bed, then kept disappearing upstairs

to check her breathing!  When she was satisfied,

she’d come outside to play badminton on the field.

And now she’s packing her bag to return, to watch

the swallows fly in and out of the barn, to shadow

her Maga in art studio and kitchen, and to assist

her Ba, who still tells tales of Vietnam, in his wood shop

and the vegetable garden, with its sentinel hares and fox,

and the gentle guardian rabbit on the gate.

The path is long, both real and remembered—

and it winds on into the years ahead.

Susan V Walton, 6/28/12, v2

Note: Maga and Ba are the names my daughter has given my parents. We are not sure where they really came from but my niece now calls them that too.