Early Spring Day

Dear mother of my mother's mother, where are you now? Where is that great house you stand in front of in this pale brown photograph? The clearest thing I see is not you... It is a black water pump: its hard metal drew forth the heavy water you used to cook and clean everyday. A warm wind laps your body and lifts the long white skirt's hem just inches above the ground. It reveals more of yourself than you ever revealed to the deep men around you: a silent father, long gone, a husband who grunts to breakfast, dinner, bed, two sons whose brash voices speak of new years whose threshold you will never see or cross. The dog rustles next to you. He knows nothing about machines that hold passing moments in rigid poses. But I can hold this time, hold it gently in my hands, and let the gentleness ease your ghost, still wandering around the house, searching for something, perhaps a brass button in a clogged drawer, or a letter addressed to you but never opened, or a red scarf you only wore on Sunday afternoons.