June 2, 2022

When I knew them, they were old and
looked nothing like they look in the photos.
Nana and Wha,
my great grandmother and great great Aunt,
sisters, helpers, healers, sewsters, cleaners, cooks
hands always moving, hearts always open, steady,
ready to listen, reprimand, praise, hug.
When I knew them, their pasts cast long shadows
their futures almost none, high noon.

In the photos they are young, Mary and Margaret,
sisters, jaunty, flirtatious, lighthearted,
wearing sailor hats, twirling a parasole,
smiling, unlined faces,
unburdened yet by what was coming,
years of loss and sorrow
broken engagements, dead babies and husbands,
the great depression,
two world wars.
Do their smiles signal optimism and hope
as they anticipate tomorrow
and the many tomorrows to follow?
I want that to be their truth but
I’ll never know for sure.

Memory, my fickle companion, knows this –
those substantial women survived.
They thrived in this foreign country where
blending in made it easier to be Irish
and just being here made it easier to be Catholic.
My great grandmother, Mary.
My great, great Aunt Margaret.
Sisters. Women.
Forever in my earliest memories
of family and home.

June 2, 2022

The orange tree’s
green-leafed boughs
are heavy with
buds, white and purple, and
blossoms, white and yellow,
sweetening the garden air,
wafting honey-scented ambrosia
everywhere and
rousing ambitious bees,
whose indulgence in the bounteous floral nectar,
orchestrates a resonant buzz
ascending to an intoxicated crescendo of
tiny wings vibrating,
a celebratory tribute to
Antonio Vivaldi’s frenzied violin.

June 2, 2022

Tug sinks into the back cushion,
window gazing,
warning-off the outside world
until sleep lids her eyes and she dreams.

She is my muse,
this little dog,
so old now that I carry her up the stairs
to our shared space.

We each have our roles here,
creator, companion,
crafted perfectly after
so many years of practice.

All the years, all the practice
have blended the roles like watercolors,
melding us in affectionate symbiosis.
Dare I say love?

With clouded eyes, she watches my brushstrokes,
observes my every move from her familiar perch.
She approves what I do and I appreciate
her kind critique, her loyal presence.

Does she perceive this as our space
or as her space which she lets me use?
Does it matter?
No, it does not.

All that matters is this:
Today is another day and we are together in our studio,
this small, aging dog and
I, her grateful, faithful, aging friend.