3 Your Voice Was Heard
Constance Hodder
In the Silence
In the silence, at day’s end,
looking over the meadow,
I hear you say,
“You should work the land”.
Great Grandfather,
You were a logger.
You were a farmer.
I am not. What is our connection
now a century past?
At the end of the road at Red Top,
I tried to find you.
Your sawmill, gone.
Tall tamaracks, gone.
Even sawdust
blown away.
What remained was the soil,
sewn with your sweat,
sewn with your dreams,
I found you there,
Your love of this land.
Great Grandfather,
We share a kinship
with each other,
with the land.
I plant trees
to remember,
those gone before
whose roots grow
deep in my bones.
Your voice was heard.
I could not leave Red Top
without something
to hold onto.
I collected a branch
from an old oak tree
you may have rested against,
in the silence, at day’s end.
My Grandmother Was Clever
My grandmother was clever,
she could tat a collar of lace,
make a doll out of a handkerchief,
and beat me at tiddlywinks.
In the end of her days, she was
heard conversing with her mother,
who passed when she was eight,
time’s veil having worn thin.
Today was warm and sunny,
I took my sandwich outside,
to eat at the picnic table,
and found you were there.
So we ate side by side,
mine peanut butter with jelly,
yours peanut butter with mayo.
Are you surprised I remembered?
Together for that moment,
eating with the sun on our backs,
yesterday as today,
without a breath between them.
Sorrow replaced by wonder
that time’s passage is not
terminal, only limited
by how we part the veil.
Gloria
Gloria is gone.
Covid stole her,
while we looked away.
Chickadee lies still
in the garden,
while we looked away.
Gloria asked angels
to lift her foot
as she stepped off.
Tiny bird entombed
between my hands,
Were angels there for you?
Gloria in Excelsis.
The Child cries alone
and we looked away.
Wind Howled in the Night
Wind howled in the night,
rain came down in torrents.
I awoke to birds singing
but heard you did not.
You who loved bright beads,
delighted in wearing a rainbow
of mismatched socks.
Who laughed so hard, we cried.
Every day birds take time
to sing out their hearts.
Do they do this to
let go of sorrow?
Intellectual disability,
a label about knowing less but
understanding more about
how vital it is to sing.
After the clouds blew off,
the sun shone this morning.
Despite this, the day didn’t
seem as bright without you.
Elise
Elise stands tall
On straight thin legs.
“I am almost ten”
she states.
That’s five plus five,
I marvel.
Elise stands proud.
“I don’t like sports.
I like music”
she reports.
What’s your instrument?
I question.
Elise never wavers.
“I like to sing”.
She stands tall
almost 10.
I listen,
bent with age.
In awe of youth.
Singing!
The Saga of Heavenly Hash
I know you remember
that evening so many years ago
in South Minneapolis
like yesterday.
Sitting side by side
on the porch front stoop
too hot to sit inside
the evening light fading.
Our hearts were one
as we poured out our
thoughts, hopes, and dreams
souls united from the start.
You on my left with your
deep tan and deeper insights.
Me with my long unshaven legs
and optimistic innocence.
The evening etched into memory
all because of two spoons
and a half gallon of ice cream
that disappeared as night set in.
Watering Trees
I remember
you as a young boy
going out to the field
with your father
to water trees.
He planted those trees
to protect the soil
creating shelter
for our home.
The trees grew tall
and you grew tall.
Now I see you
protecting your family
creating shelter
for your home.
Your son now
will need to learn
from you how to
water trees.
On The First Day
On the first day in June
the sky was brilliant blue,
so crystal clear it ran
through an icy stream
you could dip your cup into
and drink until you burst.
Life giving water flowing
over the forehead of
a newborn held so closely
by his father that their
hearts beat together as one
under a brilliant blue sky.
The Sky Darkened
The sky darkened with clouds.
Water sprinkled like rain
from the hands of the priest,
who draped the casket with
a white blanket as if
he was tucking in bed
his cold sleeping child.
In this tender action,
our loss too was covered,
not unlike a Band-Aid
hiding a weeping wound,
or newly laid tile
over old linoleum,
though neither captures it.
More like the first snowfall,
covering fallen leaves,
bare patches of dead grass,
fields of brown corn stubble,
suddenly cloaked in
white sparkling brilliance,
a paradise to behold.
We know what lies beneath,
sleeping through this season,
waiting till snow melts away,
verdant leaves bursting forth,
grass springing green overnight,
corn growing tall to harvest,
hope breaking through darkness.
CNN Reports: Colorado Reels after Deadly LGBTQ Club Shooting
He Was Only Four
He was only four
when he told his mother
he was a boy.
Then God said, ”Let us make man…
He/him “was a light in my life
with so much more life to give.”
in our own image, after our likeness…
She/her “was an amazing mother
with a huge heart.”
He created he/him, she/her, they/them.
He/him “was kind, willing to go out
of his way to help others.”
He created them.
She/her “was loving, caring, and sweet.
Everyone loved her.”
And it was so.”
He/him “found a community he loved
where he could really shine.”
We wept.
Her Hands Stretched Wide
Her hands stretched wide
across a growing belly,
searching for hope’s dance,
love’s secret within.
Seeing the unseen,
knowing the unknown,
bound eternally,
in blood and bone.
Hope denied, buried,
grave without a name,
sorrow never resting
stretches out its hands.
Blood will never see,
secrets within the vein,
bone will never hear,
a name only whispered.
My Hands Cradle
My hands cradle
the calabash,
scrubbing clean its
mottled brown skin.
Stretched tight over
a rounded belly,
its moisture lost,
dried seeds wait.
Coping with loss
is life’s journey,
was said as we
tied netted beads.
Around their hulls,
transforming gourds
into shakere,
beaded rattles.
A shake giving
voice to the hollow
bewitching beat
of the gourd dance.
“Ready to go,
ready to die”,
chant the rattle’s
ancient cadence.
Within its hollow,
loss and life lie
cradled together,
ready to sing.
At Thanksgiving
At Thanksgiving,
grief and sorrow,
took their place around the table,
on either side of gratitude.
At Christmas,
hope and joy,
joined in the festive celebration,
inviting remembrance to take a seat.
Easter is yet a mystery,
your face unseen,
known only in our hearts and bones.
We hold a place for you.
A Father’s Letter, June 25, 1974
“Honey we love you very much. We know you are going to have times of loneliness…”
I remember being small,
lost in a sea of legs.
Searching and sobbing,
you scooping me up.
“and times of foreboding.”
I remember being scared,
in shock after mother was shot.
Waiting side by side,
you consoling me.
“When these times come, pray to God.”
I remember being a bride,
walking down an aisle
on your arm having learned
love endures.
“When all else fails…”
I remember the sorrow,
you not knowing my name.
Then your heart sang out
calling ‘sweetheart’.
“You are not alone. Your ever-loving, Dad”
I remember your passing,
my glimpse of your spirit.
The message received,
love never fails.
My Father’s Stockings
He passed away
narrowly alone in
nursing home bed
once surrounded
by family
left now
in peace.
He may have worn stockings
to warm bony
cold blue feet
but the next morning
when we returned
only the bare
striped mattress
remained.
My father was
a clean man
who washed out
his stockings nightly
hanging them to dry
on the towel rack.
Something he learned to do
surrounded by brothers
with dirty feet.
We cleaned out
his drawers
his closet
his photos
leaving with bags
of a used life. Useful.
This for daughter
this for son,
this for donations
this for garbage.
The stockings
for donation laid
on top of the heap
for days
then seeing
their worn heels
their prickly
elastic tops
were placed
in the garbage.
One pair never
passed on but
remains in my
sock drawer
silently awaiting
hands that
hold turn
and remember
the man.
Two Deer
Two deer lay side by side
on an island of grass,
surrounded by snow,
waiting for sunrise.
I watched from my window,
delighted with their ease,
blessed to be included
In this landscape we share.
A bald eagle watched,
perched high atop a tree,
messenger of prayers
between souls now and past.
How do the departed slip
past the sleeping deer,
past the morning sunrise,
past our out stretched hands?
On the eagle’s wings
their spirit soars, not past,
within the landscape
of our shared existence.
Never far, always near,
joined with us, sharing love,
joy, sorrow, and prayers,
sunrises and sunsets.
Under Cover of Lipstick
Under cover of lipstick,
she took on the world.
Fire Engine Red, I teased her,
a nineteen-sixties siren.
Left behind her mark on
coffee cups and children’s cheeks,
giving life to her pale lips,
igniting a glowing smile.
That hid sorrow well until
the undertaker applied it
for the final time after which
those lips sealed the secret.
You told us he died,
such a long time ago,
crying to keep him buried,
but behind those tears, he lived.
Did you lie to protect us
or to protect yourself?
Sometimes what is apparent,
is nothing more than a ghost.
I rub the lipstick off my cheek,
still covering the truth.
and Death Shall Have No
and Death shall have no
dominion but time,
time is an open wound
never healing, picked
raw in secret.
Five years now have passed.
Seeing your face in
anguish etched into
memory that stands
frozen, helpless.
Time holds me captive.
Richness of happy days.
Poverty of loss.
Death’s dominion grips
what time is left.
Thanksgiving is past.
Snow blankets a frozen
world not dead, at rest,
awaiting rebirth,
awaiting hope.
I Laid My Hand
I laid my hand
against your cheek
holding what remained.
Your face etched
in memory as
life ebbed away.
A tree branch flung
my glasses off,
far into the snow.
Blinded I searched,
until my heart
began to see.
Three days you walked
through the valley
shadowed by death.
Goodness and mercy
followed, while bedside,
I sat helpless.
Looking in a mirror
my heart now sees
our reflection.
I lay my hand
against my cheek,
holding what remains.
I Thought of You
I thought of you today.
Snow has melted away
from the burial mound
of grass clippings you left.
Things seem unfinished
that never had an end.
Why ask why, when there’ll
never be an answer?
This is what I know from
all my years of living.
Pain cannot be treated
with a Band-Aid and a kiss.
Too much insulation
stops a house from breathing.
Crumpled paper cannot
keep china from cracking.
Closing your eyes will not
shut out the world.
I thought of the cabin.
Plywood covering the doors
and windows has not stopped
squirrels from getting in.
You shut your eyes when life
became unbearable.
Winter ended. Spring began.
The grass grows green again.
The Table Stands Empty
In a cavernous silence
the table stands empty.
Yellow leaves drift down
covering its surface.
Yesterday we sat there
feasting on colors
of light and love spinning
a cocoon together.
Within its snug safety
dark places opened.
The work of our hands
became the work of our hearts.
Today we awaken,
bright colors painted,
strong baskets woven,
awaiting butterflies.
Colors
Colors cascade
from hands of
friend to friend.
Delighted like girls,
bonded like women,
who know places
not all hearts
have found
together.