byLee Francis
- Gran'ma didn't make fry bread
her Indian hands refused the mold
Instead she chose a different path
imposed her will in other waysSecretly taught me in her rock garden
to listen quietly to the trees
Showed me how to honor and treasure
the earth our mother and sky our fatherDidn't worry if she was Indian enough
the Catholic kids made sure of that
In her own way she made her point
and quietly went on about her lifeGave her aunt Edith "what for" over me
but I never returned to the beach house
Never revisited childhood memories
of musty-smell and ocean sprayThe secret garden tested her will
to grow living plants from water starved earth
but the metate grinding stone
stayed in its place by the dining room doorWhite-laced ivy, honeysuckle, and cedar
hid the white plaster house where she lived
Much like the mask she wore of stoic reserve
except when Flissie died after the rainstormHer tears were real enough for her youngest
when he died of alcohol and other abuses
And her rock garden withered like the roses
that refused to climb the weather-worn trellis"Good-bye please" she'd say and the teaching would end
until the last time I saw her after the stroke
"Good-bye please" I whispered as I held her hand
and quietly watched as her spirit passed overGran'ma never made fry bread
and now she dances among the stars
As her gossamer shawl shimmers in the sky
on cold winter nights I listen for her laughter
Nyah is the Keres (Laguna Pueblo) word for mother/grandmother.
From Callaloo: Special Native American Issue, Vol. 17.
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