Recalling Her Namesake
Diana DiPietro I remember my grandmother, a voice like a ghost against a droplight, forming a figment in a photograph. I can almost hear her warning: the business of babies is hard work. And she should know. She lost three before my father’s birth. Too many tongues warn of miscarriage. Fear is a tangible beast. My memories shed silk from my bones. Grandmother. Her skin the color of elephant tusks, Grandmother, her eyes, two black pearls set in their sockets. I remember the way of her feet, duck- waddling up the drive, and me trailing behind, watching the garage door unfold. I’ve spent a lifetime looking back. Moments once held by small hands like the garage once held the smell of rain in its rafters. Today, I hold my stomach, tracing the outline of a life I cannot see. I try to imagine Nana’s pregnant body, and only recall her hands in mine, fingers laced like stitches. |
About the author:
Diana DiPietro received her MFA in poetry from Adelphi University. In 2013, she was the recipient of the Donald Everett Axinn award in poetry. She currently resides in Montana. |