Gratitude

I remember running free

among the cattails and bluebells,

slashing spider webs with twigs

and singing to the birds in trees.

She would call from our broken porch

that dinner was ready and to be quick.

The amber-tipped summer grass

waved in the dusk as I ran to the home

we had made since father had passed.

Sitting at the knifed-gouged table, I could

see her shifting her weight to her hickory leg,

as she stood at the kitchen sink garnishing our plates

with fresh parsley she’d pulled from the garden.

Her labored breath, like a slow metronome, was meditative,

and a faint melody could be heard under her breath,

one she was too timid to sing aloud.

She possessed the silence of a burdened animal,

moving forward unnoticed by most until she stopped

and drew attention from all. She had a rare beauty,

one you would expect from a life of toil and good will.

I use to think of her as burnished, like a marvelous river stone

that becomes more graceful and smooth as it is tumbled about

on the coarse beds, never remembering its origin or knowing its

destination. She buried all her children, save me. And the love

of her life, who she’d met in the one-room school house

a mile away, left her, unable to recognize her face, as he

drifted into the immensity of eternity.

Throughout the day you could hear the faint tune of

some unknown song under her breath. I once asked

where she had heard a certain song, and she merely smiled

and replied, “In my heart.” I would walk to school trying to make

my own songs, but it was impossible. She, however, did it effortlessly,

everyday, the way she did all her work and acts of kindness. She

had a gift.

The willow tree she had planted many years before

swayed like lion’s mane in the cool autumn breeze

the day she passed. Days later, many friends from nearby

farms brought food out of gratitude for the many burdens she

had lifted from their lives. Some spoke of drink, others money, others

abandonment, but one small elderly woman, wearing a bonnet and broad smile,

took my hand and said that of all the people she had ever known my mother was

the kindest and most valuable, for she had given her the gift of music which

she used every day. The woman turned and walked back to the picnic table as the

sun started to set. I entered the kitchen and sat at the table,

where I had not sat in many years, and as the gossamer figure of my mother stood quietly singing at the kitchen sink, I began hearing a song of my own for the first time in my life.

Til Turner is a writer and poet from Virginia. He currently teaches English at Northern Virginia Community College.