Recalling Her Namesake
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.