Grandfather who died or traveled west when my mother was three, what grows in the soil of you? Are you the Cherokee rumor of my ancestry, the rambler who pulls me always to walk
beneath vaults of oak and pine, to hear more than wind in the sigh of ferns? Are you the trace of Smokey Mountains in my mother’s cheekbones, the loam that keeps her tan even in deep winter, the worn leather of her smile? And what called, or drove, you back to Oklahoma those many years ago? Did some pleading in your daughter’s eyes set you to flight, or some fear of yourself, a penchant to fall into drink or rage, or was that girl’s mother just one quick bead on the string of women whose beds you shared for however brief a time? I am calling to you Obsidian Stone, Not-Quite-Man, Phantom Bear of my family. Am I the shore the ripples of your life wash up on, or just some leaf riding the swelled shadow of your absence? Comments are closed.
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