Of Mustard Seeds and Rainbows

Of Mustard Seeds and Rainbows

Nowadays, we live in the Information Age. Satellite dishes and cable TV take us to remote corner of the earth and to outer space. Spending an hour surfing the Net can yeild more information than is possible to find in days of research in a library.
Amid this deluge of knowledge, it's easy to forget the childhood wonder of discovery we had when we were young and just beginning the learn about the why's and how's of the world around us.

But, if I try, I can remember what it was like way back when I was only eight years old. I can see Mrs. Bluma McCrary, my third grade teacher, just as she looked back in 1965. I can remember so much about her class because she was one of my favorite teachers. And, I can especially remember what she taught us about mustard seeds and rainbows.

At eight the marvels of light refraction can seem magical. At least they did to me back then. Mrs. McCrary introduced the concept to us in a science lesson one sunny afternoon. I vividly remember the day she brought out that prism!
She took it from her desk drawer slowly, letting the rainbow of light that showered before our eyes and splattered across the room, speak for itself. We were all mesmerized.

As we oohed and aahed, she began to explain about light waves and the color spectrum, carefully phrasing it in terms that third-graders could comprehend. Finally, I understood the misty rainbows that emerged when I played under the sprinkler on hot summer days.

Later in the year, when we were learning about plants, she again demonstrated her expert teaching style. We came to class one morning to find several odd-looking contraptions on the science table.

They resembled sandwiches made of two glass squares bound with rubber bands. In the middle of each was a standard, school- issued brown paper towel. They seem strange sitting there beside the other, more familiar science objects: seashells, a deer antler, rocks with fossils, a few arrowheads, an old bird's nest, and several magnifying glasses.

We all wondered what they were, and finally, my nosiness got the better of me. Sidling up to her, as she carefully printed each reading group's assignments on the chalkboard, I waited to ask. She finished writing and then listened to my puzzled inquiry. She answered, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear, that we would all find out when it was time for Science.

Of course, we were consumed with curiosity. It seemed to take forever to get through reading that morning. We never once realized she was intentionally whetting our appetites for the science lesson that came later.

Needless to say, she had a captive audience as she began her lesson on seed germination.

The squares, once turned over, revealed tiny mustard seeds pressed tightly between the glass and paper towels. As the days passed, we were permitted to take turns watering the seeds. Using eyedroppers, we squeezed water between the layers of glass until the light tan paper turned dark and a film of water spread throughout the boundaries of the compressed squares.

Like any good scientists, we had a control subject and several variations, including one square that wasn't watered and another denied sunlight. We marveled as the tiny plants emerged from their seed coats and wriggled towards the sunlight. We were actually seeing what, until this point in our short lives, had been a miracle that took place under the cover of the earth.

When we read our science books later, the facts made sense because they described what we had experienced. They weren't just words to be memorized, they were concepts learned. I'm sure I most likely drove my parents crazy explaining the daily progress of the seeds, but I was eager to share my new-found knowledge.

Remembering those days, I realized I never told Mrs. McCrary what a wonderful teacher she was.
Thank you, Mrs. M, for instilling a love of learning at a young age that has stayed with me my entire life.

And to this day, every time I plant a seed or see a rainbow, I think of you.

Rose S. Williams- 2000
Southernstoryteller

I wrote this as a article for a column I used to write for the Clinch County News in Homerville, GA
I'm so glad I wrote it before Mrs. McCrary passed away, she told me it meant a lot to her. Always take to time to let a teacher know how much they meant to you and what their influence meant to your life.

A Gallery of Martyrs

June 5th always reminds me of that awful day in 1968 when Robert Kennedy was assassinated. I was not quite 11 years old at the time, and it was only two months since the assassination of Dr. King, and because of those two tragedies the year holds firm in my memory. It was then that I realized how cruel and unfair life could be.
This story is a bit autobiographical and fictional in many ways. It was very therapeutic to write it when I did back in 1998.

*****************************************************************
A Gallery of Martyrs

As she walked down the dirt road to Dulcie's house, Jody stepped gingerly around the mule pies drying in the hot afternoon sun.  They were evidence that Clarence had driven the turpentine wagon this way yesterday when coming in from work. It was his way of letting Dulcie know he'd be home for supper in forty-five minutes. That's usually about how long it took him and the other men to unload the day's worth of gum barrels and unhitch, feed and water the mule team. Once he got home Dulcie would have supper for the two of them on the table.

Their four boys, having already eaten, would be playing marbles or kick the can outside. Jody heard her tell Momma once that it was one of the few times that the two of them could sit and talk without interruptions. Living in a three-room shanty didn't leave much in the way of privacy.

Today was Saturday. Jody had finished with her chores and was reading when her mother asked her to run down to Dulcie's with a message. She needed to see if Dulcie could be to work by 7:30 on Monday.  Momma had to take Granny to her doctor's appointment and wouldn't be home until late afternoon.

Jody reached Dulcie and Clarence’s house and hopped across the dusty ditch. She made her way past the assorted chickens feeding in the clean-swept front yard. There didn't seem to be anyone around outside.  Most likely, Clarence and the boys were gone fishing.
As she stood looking at the small house with its weathered pine walls the color of mud, she kept thinking how crowded it must be to have six people living here. She bounded up the steps that led to the freshly scrubbed front porch.

Four heart pine pillars supported the roof and between each pair white twine was crisscrossed and covered with morning glory vines laden with flowers. The flowers were slightly closed now, with the pink tinges of their petals drooping in the May heat. The south Georgia sun was relentless. Off to the side of the front porch was a closed door that led to Dulcie and Clarence's small bedroom.

Jody stopped at the open front door and peered into the room. Its floor, also of heart pine, had been scrubbed as well, and was still damp around the edges. On either side of the fireplace were windows, big open squares without glass whose hinged wooden doors were now swung outward and latched against the house to let in light and a breeze.

On the inside of the windows old screening was tacked up to keep out the mosquitoes.  Clarence had found it at the dump and brought it home for Dulcie to use. She proudly invited Jody to see her handiwork one day while she was visiting.

Now, Dulcie told her, those hateful mosquitoes couldn't come in at night and, as she put it, "suck her babies dry."

Inside the room was a small hand-hewn table on which a kerosene lamp and Bible rested. Tucked underneath it were two chairs with coon skin seats Clarence built himself.  This is where he and Dulcie sat each night while their oldest boy, Taft, read to them from the Bible.

In the middle of the room sat an old sofa that used to belong to Jody's family. The floor was brightened by an oval braided rug made from fabric scraps Dulcie retrieved from old clothes Momma gave her. The door on the east side of the room led to the kitchen where a long table with benches served as the dining area.

At the back part of the living room against the wall were two iron bedsteads where the boys slept. On both of them lay quilts Dulcie made; one with a Flower Garden pattern and the other a Crazy Quilt that she stitched a couple of years ago.

Jody smiled when she looked at the Crazy Quilt pattern. It was vibrant with color, made from all kinds of materials cut in different shapes and stitched together with no particular pattern. The first time she saw it, she’d come here to deliver a message like today. Dulcie and her neighbor Bertha were sitting on the front porch joining together large sections of the quilt. After relaying her mother’s message, Jody asked if she could help with the project. Dulcie found a needle and some thread and showed her where to start.

That day, sitting there listening to the two women talk, and sewing until the light started to fade, was the beginning of many such times for Jody. She even convinced Dulcie to let her take some scraps home to work on at night while watching television. Momma laughed when she saw what Jody was doing, and jokingly asked what Dulcie was paying her for her piece work.

Jody knocked on the door frame and called out, "Dulcie, it's me, Jody. Are you here?"  There was no answer.

She walked into the room, glancing around at the pictures on the wall. A large framed picture of Jesus hung in the place of honor over the mantle. His right hand was raised, and it seemed to Jody as though he were blessing the home and its occupants.

Apparently, Dulcie felt the same way. She told Jody that Jesus was her personal Savior who loved her and watched over her and her family every day. Jody once asked Dulcie, while she was at their house working, if she thought Jesus was really white or if he had just been painted that way by a white artist.  The woman stopped ironing the pair of khakis stretched on the ironing board and looked puzzled.

She shook her head in disbelief and said, "Of course, Jesus is white!  What kind of question is that? Have you ever seen a picture of a colored Jesus, girl!?"

Jody said no, but told her she'd learned in Geography that day in school that in the land where Jesus lived, most people were darker-skinned than any picture of Jesus she’d ever seen. She explained how it made her start to wonder exactly what shade of skin he had. He might not be colored like Dulcie, she said, but maybe he was at least darker than all those Bible pictures or the pictures that she and Dulcie both had in their living rooms. Maybe he was really the color of an Indian or Mexican...

It was at this point that Dulcie put a stop to the conversation. She told Jody indignantly to stop asking questions about the Son of God and go outside and play like a normal child. Besides, she threatened, what would Jody's Momma and Daddy say if they heard her talking like that? Jody hurried outside then, and never brought the subject up again; just the thought of what would happen if her parents found out was enough to silence her.

Standing in front of the painting now, she shuddered to herself at the thought. She still held the beliefs about the question she had raised with Dulcie, but she'd never discussed it with anyone else since then.  She’d learned a valuable lesson that day: the religious climate of the Deep South didn't take to kindly to young girls who questioned the Bible.

There were two other pictures adorning the wall on either side of the mantle. On the left was a photograph of President Kennedy from a cover of Life magazine.  It was encased in a cheap wooden frame. Dulcie's brother Ernest, who lived in Miami, had sent it to her when Kennedy was elected president.

A photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. hung on the right side of the wall. It was a newspaper photograph of him in jail. The first time Jody noticed it on one of her visits; Dulcie walked over and took it down from the wall. She handed it to the girl and said quietly, "This was when he was in jail in Birmingham. He's a great man, Jody, and he wants to help people like me and my family. I thought President Kennedy was the answer, but now with him gone, it's up to Reverend Martin."
She said it with such conviction, as if she knew him personally, that Jody got a lump in her throat.

Footsteps on the back porch made her realize she'd been standing in the middle of the room daydreaming. Dulcie came in through the back door with an armload of clothes she had taken off the line.

"Hi Dulcie, I knocked and came in to look for you. I was waiting for you to come back."

"Hey, chile. I was out back taking in my laundry." As the woman smiled the gold rim on her front tooth sparkled in the muted sunlight. "What do you need today? Or did you just come for a little visit?"

Jody relayed her mother's message. Dulcie smiled, shook her head, and said, "Poor Miss Lila gotta spend all day with your mean ole granny. Tell her yeah, I'll be there early Monday morning, I can always use the extra money."

They chatted for a few more minutes. Soon they heard Clarence and the boys outside. Jody turned to leave and smiled at the string of perch and catfish they were proudly showing off.  She knew that it wouldn't be long before the tempting aroma of frying fish and hush puppies would be wafting out of Dulcie's kitchen.

Later that evening after supper, Jody lay in the swing on the front porch. It was a favorite place to enjoy the evening breezes and listen to the whip-o-wills.  She started thinking about Dulcie's house, trying to put her finger on something that had been in the back of her mind ever since her visit earlier in the day.  For some reason she couldn't get the image of the wall of pictures out of her head. There was something so familiar about it, something she had seen before somewhere else.

Suddenly, she realized what it was!

She had seen the very same pictures hanging in the homes of several other residents in the quarters. But never before now had she realized that so many had those same three images: Jesus, President Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., hanging on their living room walls.

It's like a gallery of martyrs, she thought, especially since the assassination of Dr. King. She felt tears welling in her eyes as she remembered the unthinkable act that took place last month. The somber faces on everyone after the news about Memphis had broken both worried and frightened her. She tried, in her young mind, to understand why it happened. Jody's parents avoided the subject altogether turning off the television after the first day of news coverage. Jody longed for an answer, and she turned to Dulcie for comfort.  She wanted and needed an adult to give her a reason for the senseless act.

When Dulcie came to work the first time after the assassination, her eyes were bloodshot eyes and her eyelids swollen from crying. She wouldn't say much as Jody talked, occasionally nodding at the girl.  Finally, Jody broke into tears, wondering out loud why it had happened.

Dulcie looked at her for the longest time, it seemed, and then said, "It happened 'cause this is a mean ole world we live in, Baby. There’s people who don't want it to get any better for some of us." She sighed heavily, as if the weight of the burden she bore was almost more than she could bear. She told Jody to run along outside to play so she could finish her work. She wouldn't say anything else about it after that, even though Jody tried to ask more questions a couple of times.

In the past month, Jody hadn't brought up the subject again. But now as this new revelation about the pictures had come to her, she couldn't wait for a chance to talk to Dulcie again.  It would have to wait until Monday though, because every Sunday Dulcie and her family spent most of the day in church.

As soon as she got off the school bus on Monday, Jody bounded into her house and called out Dulcie's name.

"I'm back here in your momma's room, honey."  Jody raced down the hall and found her polishing furniture in her parent's bedroom.

"You know what, Dulcie? I was thinking the other day, after I was at your house, about the pictures you have on your wall.” Jody had to stop to catch her breath for a second. “And you know what; I realized something about them I never thought of before."

"Uh-huh, what about 'em, Baby?" Dulcie said, never looking up from her task.

"Did you realize that lots of other folks in the quarters have the same three pictures: Jesus, President Kennedy and Dr. King, hanging on their walls just like you? I know for a fact that Bertha does, and so does Old Jonas, Miss Junie, and, Zachariah..." she paused to think for a minute about who else did. Jodie had been in many of the houses in the quarters to deliver messages about work from her daddy, or phone messages from family to some of the residents. She and her family had the only phone in the village.

"Yeah, I know what you mean Honey, what about it?"

"Well, I was just wondering,” Jody faltered as she tried to figure out how to say what she wanted to convey, “Uh, I don't know...well, why do you? I mean did y'all all do it at different times or did one person see it in someone else's house and decide to copy it or what? We have a picture of Jesus, but we don't even have a picture of any of the presidents. I was just wondering..."  Jody's voice faded away, incapable of expressing her interest and puzzlement at the phenomenon.

Dulcie looked at the girl for several seconds, not saying anything. Her normally smooth brown forehead was wrinkled, and Jody could tell she was thinking intently. Jody suddenly felt foolish for asking, after all what business was it of hers, anyway? She started to speak haltingly, "Oh, I'm sorry Dulcie, it's really not any of my business, I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Wait a minute," the woman said, "I'm a-thinking ‘bout it...Hmmm, well let me see how to explain this to you, child. Wait-here, let me ask you a question first, okay?”

Jody nodded, anxious to hear Dulcie’s thoughts. “Why do you have all those posters on your bedroom wall?"

Jody frowned, confused by the question and what connection it had with what she had asked. She thought for a minute of the posters she had. There were a couple of some bands, one with a peace sign and the American flag as a background, and one of a picture of the sunset with the poem Desiderata on it. Of all the things she had on her bedroom walls the poster with the poem was her favorite.

When she spotted the poem in Mrs. Wright’s English classroom last year several of the lines spoke right to her heart. As she reread the words for several days they seemed to help her understand and accept the craziness of the world around her lately. She  liked the part which said..."the world is full of trickery. But let it not blind you to what virtue there is: many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere, life is full of heroism."

She especially loved the last line, "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world." Those words gave her a reason to believe that even amidst the madness that seemed to be part and parcel of the world in which she was growing up, there was still beauty and reason to be found somewhere.

All at once she realized why Dulcie asked her about the posters and what the pictures of those three men meant to her.

"Oh! I think I understand what you mean, Dulcie. I have those pictures and posters on my wall because I believe in what they stand for. I like the people in the pictures because their songs mean something to me and the saying on the poster ‘cause it helps me understand things better. They're special to me, just like your pictures of those people mean something special to you."

"That's right, chile. I have a picture of Jesus because he is someone who loves me and mine and will always be there for me. And President Kennedy and Reverend Martin were two people who tried so hard to do something for us and make the world a better place."

"But Dulcie, don't it make you sad that they are all dead now. I mean who are you going to look up to now?"

Dulcie looked at Jody and shook her head. Tears brimmed up on her eyelashes and she turned away to polish the chest of drawers. She seemed to be collecting herself before answering. Turning slowly back towards Jody, she took a long, deep breath.

“You sure do a lot of thinkin', don't you, Baby? Yeah, I reckon you're right; it does make my heart feel heavy sometimes, if I dwell on it too much. But, I been waitin' for Ernest to send me one of Bobby. He's still out there fightin’ and when he's elected I know he’ll do ever'thing he can to keep the dream alive. At least, we still got him to count on."
A sigh escaped her lips. Her eyes grew glassy with tears again. Jody suddenly felt responsible for making this woman, whom she loved dearly, feel so sad. She rushed over and hugged her.

"I'm sorry, Dulcie, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"No, chile, you just called it as you see'd it. That's the way of you young folks these day, and there ain't nothing wrong with that. I reckon I'll see that wall of mine in a different light from now on. Now, you got to let ole Dulcie go before you take her breath clean away from a-huggin' so tight."

Jody could hear the smile in her voice without even looking up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A month later, Jody sat on the side of her bed crying as she finished her task. Her tears splattered on the frame lying in her lap and she reached for another tissue to wipe the glass dry. She flipped through Life and Look for just the right photograph.

Finally, she found the one taken several years earlier, where he looked much younger. It was before the sorrow and grief of his brother's death had worn furrows in his forehead, darkened the twinkling in his eyes, and erased his beautiful smile.

Jody cut it out and placed it in the frame she'd purchased at the five and dime earlier that day.  When she was finished, she walked out into the living room where her parents sat watching the television. Jody glanced and saw the image of a flag-draped coffin in the last car. The funeral train was making its final journey homeward. Hundreds of people lined the sides of the railroad, all colors, all crying.

"Momma, I'll be back in a little bit. I've got something to take to Dulcie." Her mother wiped her eyes with a tissue and nodded.

Jody swallowed back tears as she walked out the door bearing another picture for Dulcie's wall.



Rose S. Williams~1998
Southernstoryteller

Modern Mythology

A poem I wrote back in 1998 as I struggled to be what I thought was expected of me: as a wife and mother. Sometimes we set the bar so high for ourselves, we run the risk of wearing ourselves out. I now understand that the roles that help define me (yet do not limit me) are many: wife, mother, daughter, aunt, sister, friend, and writer..to name a few. I also realized, the perfection I was buying into was only an illusion.

Modern Mythology

Like vaudevillians balancing

spinning plates on poles,

we juggle checkbooks and date books,

playgroups and meetings,

mealtimes and free time,

at a frenzied pace.

We strive to be the best

in all our interactions

with those we most cherish:

husbands, lovers, children,

parents and friends,

while often in the process

we shortchange ourselves.

We long to be the perfect woman.

Reading mounds of self-help books,

watching Oprah and chanting her mantra

we search desperately for the path that leads

us away from our frantic, harried lives

and towards the elusive myth of perfection.

Are we genetically ingrained

to give our all to others?

How long and how much will we give?

Will we give until we ache

into the very core

of our bodies, minds and souls?

Do we bleed each month because of Eve’s sin,

or because we give so much of ourselves?

Is it a wound of selflessness?

Is it an affliction that we bear

because of our obsession?

Can we accept the truth-

the reality that there is no perfect woman?

Be she wife, lover, mother, daughter or friend,

she does not exist in perfection,

except in those dated fables of long ago.

June Cleaver and Harriet Nelson

were paragons of excellence.

They set standards we can never attain

for they are the goddesses of twentieth century mythology.

Just remember,

they are not real,

only dubious myths

concocted in Hollywood

by a roomful of cigar-smoking men.

Rose S. Williams

©Southernstoryteller

1998

This poem was published in Della Donna, a webzine for women, April 2008. 

In The End

This is about my paternal grandmother-
She died when I was 13, and ended up a very bitter woman because of her crippling rheumatoid  arthritis. I always knew she loved me, that was never in doubt, but it troubled me to see how much anger she held inside of her as she grew more crippled.


In the End

You laid there behind the door of your bedroom
as feared as Homer’s Cyclops.
Those who entered did not emerge unscathed,
for you excelled in hurtling barbed words
which stung the soul and harmed the heart.

You filled your sons and daughters with dread,
your daughters by marriage with fear.
Your infirmity was like wood that stokes a fire,
it fed the burning rage of your resentment.

I never felt your arrows-
what was it?  Love?
that softened your tongue with your grandchildren.
I know that’s what I felt for you, and pity, too.
I felt sympathy for your gnarled crippled body,
so twisted that it looked inhuman.
Yes, I felt love and pity,
even though you made my momma cry.

As time passed you shriveled like a drying grape,
your fingers curled inward, pressing the flesh
of your palms. Your elbows and knees,
swollen like plump grapefruits,
were spongy and sore to the touch.
Your backside became littered with festers,
bedsores born of hours and days and months and years
of lying prone on mattresses.

The copper bracelet around your wrist,
a far-fetched miracle cure,
could not save you from the disease
that sapped your health,  stole your mobility.
But you wore it anyway, as a defiant gesture
to show you would fight until the end.

You seemed so angry at the world,
or maybe at Fate which had stripped you
of your life while you were still in your prime.
It reduced you to a human pretzel of contorted bones.

You were angry at your husband--
why was he untouched by God’s cruel hand?
You resented his health and made
him tiptoe past your doorway
lest he ignite your ire.

You were angry at your children for growing up,
abandoning you in the guise of marriage.
No matter that they came back, taking turns to care for you.
And you seemed angry most of all
at your daughters-in-law.
They had stolen away your sons,
the Adonises born of your body
when it was young and strong, unmarred by disease.
Stolen them away with their own buxom bodies
and seductive wiles just as you were stricken
by Fate’s cruel crippling arrow.

It did not matter that they came to your home,
just as your own daughters,
to wash your silky silver hair
and sponge your withered body
caressing it with powders to lessen
the friction of skin on cotton.
There was nothing they could do
to diminish your rage.

In the end, it consumed you from within.
The fiery anger and resentment
the red-hot fire in your joints and bones.
It eventually took your life
leaving only a ruined shell
of the woman you once were.

Rose S. Williams
2002-Southernstoryteller

Among the Branches

I know this one thing to be true~
Birds do not mind
If you sit with them among the branches.


The trick to it
is to go there enough
and to sit quietly
so that they get used to you.
Some cracked corn and bread crumbs
helps ease their fear.


I know this to be true
because I've sat there
still as can be and waited
for that flashy red cardinal
to light on a nearby oak limb.


He was startled, to be sure
the first time he saw me~
a twelve year old human
in amongst his domain...
but from what I recall, 
he was curious as well.


We sat there
or rather I sat, and he perched,
staring at each other in fascination.
Never before having the advantage 
of such close observations.

I didn't realize how bright red he really is, I thought.
I never knew she had hazel eyes, he thought.
I wonder if he will like the bread crumbs, I thought.
I wonder if she's going to be here everyday, he thought.


And so, a truce was made
between cardinal and girl
to be amongst the branches 
of a towering old oak at the same time.


He brought friends in the days that followed,
they also let me sit with them.
I got to know them all, by song and sight,
And I realized, I was blessed to be a witness.
It was then, at twelve, 
I realized that on some days
Life can be very good indeed.


©Rose Steedley Williams~3/2011


*This was inspired by this amazing video by poet Sarah Kay. 
http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html

Thinking about what she said, about the power of poetry and how we all have poem/stories in us that only we know, this idea came forth. What is one thing I know to be true, from my own experience? The memory of 12 year old Rose, sitting in her tree house, watching the birds come and go among the branches was the first thing that came to mind...and so, I wrote :)

Hidden Mr. Hyde

Hidden Mr. Hyde  In the layers of our souls, secrets hide never told. Hidden from all prying eyes covered here and there with lies. Secrets we have never shared, our soul’s dark corners, never bared. Private places all our own where seeds of small deceits are sown. Secluded deep within our hearts, deceptions we cannot impart. Masked behind our public faces, disguised to erase any traces. Undisclosed these places stay the dregs and dross of our dismay. They represent our darker side Our alter ego.... Mr. Hyde. Rose S. Williams~1999 ©Southernstoryteller

Burden

We all carry this burden

at one time or another,

this heavy burlap sack

of sorrow and pain

grappling on our backs,

wondering if it will ever lighten.


It's a byproduct

of loving

of caring

of losing...

how could we have known

it would be such a brutal load?


Others don't realize

if it's been a while

since they've lost someone,

they've forgotten its weight

on their back,

the excruciating knot in their heart,

and they've let go of

some of their sorrow.

They've set it free,

sent off with prayers

to their gods

or in meditations

they've let it go

with the wind.


But to those of us

whose burdens are still fresh,

still stinging and raw,

we recognize it's grip

when we see it in the eyes of others.

We see it behind their smiles

the pain that sits there

like a raptor

waiting for a moment

of weakness to grasp

the tender, fragile heart

and make them remember

their loss with tears.


We see them struggling,

and though they may look unbowed

to the eyes of most,

we see the curve of their shoulders,

sagging ever so slightly,

under the cumbersome burden.

We offer words of comfort, 

a balm for their wounded hearts,

and in the sharing, it is hoped

we help each other heal.

For we are members of a tribe

whose dues are paid for

by the painful, intimate knowledge

of the burden of grief.


Rose Steedley Williams

©Southernstoryteller~4/2011

edited 06/06/2016