Uncle Laird passed in high Autumn... his funeral was so pretty, what with the glow'n leaves swirl'n round the graveyard. I remember that his favorite hymn was 'This Is My Father's World', so the bagpiper played that tune all the way out to his spot. Aunt Rena walked behind the casket... I held her hand and helped her down the pocked, uneven slabs of ancient granite that served as the old church's front steps. I remember look'n up, into her precious face, and think'n that no queen had ever carried herself any better.
They had been hitched, in unbreakable tandem, for sixty-seven years. From orchards to fence rows to babies... everythin they touched, grew.
Aunt Rena didn't like honey, but he did; so she tended hives. And he couldn't ride a bike to save his life, but she loved to ride; so he carved out four miles of wind'n trail for her to use... no one in the county could keep up when my Aunt Rena peddled those trails!
I've noticed that there's a special gather'n time that comes when one love passes and the other waits to join em. Sometimes, it's a long wait... but their's was short. Aunt Rena went to join him for Christmas... him, and the dear boy they'd lost.
We did a whole lot of talk'n bout him that Fall.... while she made her peace and waited.
One day, I asked her if they had been happy... if she was glad bout spend'n her life with him. It was a foolish question from a foolish child... but the answer changed my life.
We were fold'n laundry,and her beautiful, work-worn hands slowed down and petted the linen tea towel in her lap. Softly, she spoke.... her eyes downcast... I felt her breath on my cheek as I leaned in to hear...
"Sweet child... your Uncle Laird was my life... we lived our time here like one, whole apple. And, just like it takes some fuss to grow apples... it takes some fuss'n to grow an Us."
I first tried to write this after we buried her... but it was still-born. Over the years, I've come back to it... fussed over it... but I like it now... cause it carries her smile.
It Takes a Fuss
It takes some fuss to make an us.
A little butter makes the batter
Smoother and some sugar goes in after
Pizzazz peppers bring some
Heat to our sweet and bitter us.
Decorated with some sprinkles,
Tiny stars for crystal twinkles,
And some dromedary carried
Cherries - - for our exotic us.
Draped with flutterbies and candies
Forget-me-nots and brandy
With some moon shine
- makes it dandy -
For our little, ornery us.
It takes some fuss...
To make an us.
©Naomi Marshall 2017
YOU ARE READING
Chicken Teeth
PoetryIt's my pleasure to share this eclectic mix of poem, prose, and song. These are stories from the Tidewater: that gentle land that slopes into the sea and cradles the Great Dismal Swamp. I hope you enjoy the read'n of em as much as I have enjoyed...
