I will edit your words to elevate and empower them.

I plead someone to see my insides soon,

To grasp them as they would their own entrails,

To walk hand in hand down the altar rails,

Someone to watch the change of sun and moon,

And when I saunter in someone to swoon,

As he looks upon my long flowing veils,

A moon of white will rise and bring vast gales,

A young sailor with a deadly harpoon,

Swings a long distance into the big blue,

Drags up from depths a creature too loyal,

Whose heart longs to beat, yet is pierced straight through,

He steps on her like conquering royal,

But her pod, like mine, sink his ship and crew,

With love that's true, she sinks beneath Bathyal.

 

I plead someone to see my insides soon.

To grasp them as they would their own entrails,

To walk hand in hand through the altar tales,

Someone to watch the change of sun and moon,

And when I saunter in someone to swoon.

As he beholds my white cascading veils,

A moon of red will rise and bring vast gales.

A whaler’s crew with the betroth’d harpoon

His iron penetrates, reels her aground

The ship. They tear ‘part her heart from the sea

To milk her oil in lieu of love unowned.

They also skin her warmth and energy.

“Draw out irons!” Left in scrapes ‘n’ bones unbound.

Her carcass will still feed all in the sea.

 

 

Sun cheers and cheers through the trees,

With their moss matted hair;

A green pale pond waits for a fresh breeze,

Mid summer's air.

 

As cheery sun and gentle

Breeze comes, I hold their hand,

As golden sand curly strands nestle

In my heartland.

 

Across our path, stalked a pain,

"Both you smile, way too much!"

Sun still cheers our warmth, and winds proclaim

Loves’ soft touch!

 

 

Sun cheers and cheers through the trees,

With their moss-matted hair.

A green, pale pond waits for a fresh breeze,

Midsummer's air.

 

As cheery Sun and gentle

Breeze comes as I hold their hand.

As golden sand curly strands nestle

In my heartland,

 

Across our path stalked a pain.

"Both of you smile, way too much!"

Sun still cheers our warmth and winds proclaim

Love’s soft touch!

            The door opens inch by inch as an older woman struggles with a cane and keys in one hand and two full grocery bags in the other. A small, wiry dog runs to the door barking at Blair arriving, issuing a notice for her daughter, Theresa, to help.

"Oh! Go!" Blair says to Luna, the black and gray terrier jumping on her pant leg.

"Go sit down. I am fine, honey. Just give me a second." Blair waves off her daughter, but Theresa takes the grocery bags. She takes them to the kitchen to unpack. Cold air floods out as Theresa opens the fridge, relieving herself of the unbearable heat inside the house. Between the broken AC and the annual weed whacking of the property starting at dawn until it became too hot to work at noon, Theresa sweats even after showering off the layers of dry grass and hard work.

A couple of hours every day for a week is what it takes to rid the property of weeds. Theresa had to stop every half hour or so to restring the cursed weed whacker after hitting a rock or simply coming undone after heavy use. Every day Theresa would finish a small section, only to go back and rake the weeds, pulling them into the green bin.

"Gosh, you were out there working hard, huh? Already so hot!" Blair says, using her sun hat to fan herself while wobbling with her cane into the living room. Blair got a new knee several months ago. Now, she uses her cane for extra strength, but it did not help with the heat fatigue of the early summer. It was not long ago when Blair used to do the work with Theresa before every fire season, battling the never-ending dead growth. Now Blair is far too old and can no longer kneel and unearth the dead; Theresa does it all alone.

Blair continues, " I think I saw some smoke up near Cobb driving back. It did not look like much, but you know how much even a single smidge of smoke worries me. All that dry, old brush in April! The heat has never been this bad, this early! "

She walks from one window to the next, scanning the hills from different views in the living room.

"Yeah, no kidding. I will keep an eye out for it. I hoped coming to California for spring break would be the best time of year to weed whack. Guess I am wrong."

Theresa's eyes follow her mothers in pursuit of a whitish-gray trail rising to the sky. After earning a graduate degree in psychology at 45, Theresa decided she wanted to live in a city, any city with less fear and more rain. She started working at a community college in Washington with a small therapy practice. Leaving her house to be occupied by her mother, Theresa promised to come back to California for a week every year to take care of the never-ending weed-whacking and being the well-educated, doting daughter. Theresa left Blair to find solace in her church, clubs, and the heat. This move was not hard for Theresa because as they grew older, they also grew apart. Blair understood Theresa's need for escape despite not agreeing with her whims. 

"There is not a wrong or a right when the world is changing." Blair leaves to sit on the couch after a long day of church meetings and clubs mediating the flames of local opinions and passions. She flips through channels for the closest local news covering segments of the area and occasionally the county they resided in, only when it was ablaze. The background buzz was no longer records of classics that rang out through the houses they lived in, but it was the ever-present radio listing the endless threats.

"Is the climate changing your local wine grapes? Find out after the commercial break." After a couple of commercials and stories of smoke-tainted California grapes, a snore rises from the couch, echoing through the house. Theresa gets up from her paperwork, looking at her mother peacefully resting. Wishing Theresa could someday feel that peace again, where she could put one of her mothers' old records on and freely be with the music as she did as a child. No one could feel like a child in this town: this inferno. Whether Theresa was in the California house or Washington for work, she could never rest during the endless hot season. She would spend nights upon nights awake, listening to the radio on her laptop while scrolling for updates on social media and obsessively watching any little burn. Theresa presses her t-shirt to her chest, soaking up her sweat, then gets up to move the big fan to face her sleeping mother.

 

*          *          * 

The entrance door opens inch by inch as the older woman struggles with a cane and keys in one hand and two full grocery bags in the other. A small, wiry dog runs to the door barking at Blair's arrival, issuing a notice for her daughter, Theresa, to help.

"Oh! Go!" Blair says to Luna, the black and gray terrier jumping on her pant leg.

"Go sit down. I'm fine, honey. Just give me a second." Blair waves off her daughter, but Theresa takes the grocery bags, unpacking them in the kitchen. Cold air floods out as Theresa opens the fridge, relieving herself of the unbearable heat within the house. Between the broken AC and the annual weed whacking of the property from dawn till it became too hot to work at about noon, Theresa sweats even after showering off the layers of dead grass.

A couple of hours every day for a week, that’s what it takes to rid the property of weeds. Stopping every half hour or so to restring the cursed weed whacker after hitting a rock or just simply coming undone after heavy use of its defenses. Everyday Theresa would only get a small section done, only to go back and rake the weeds, pulling them into the green bin.

"Gesh, you were out there working hard, huh? Already so hot!" Blair says using her sun hat to fan herself while wobbling with her cane into the living room. Blair got a new knee several months ago. She now uses a cane for extra strength but no help with the heat fatigue of the early summer. It wasn't too long ago, Blair used to do the work with Theresa before every fire season, battling the never-ending dead growth. Now Blair is far too old, and can no longer kneel and unearth the dead; Theresa does it all alone.

Blair continues talking, "I think I saw some smoke up near Cobb driving back. Now, it didn't look like much, but you know how much even a single smidge of smoke worries me. All that dry, old brush in April! The heat has never been this bad, this early! " She walks from one window to the next, scanning the hills from different views in the living room.

"Ya, no kidding. I'll keep an eye out for it. I thought coming down to the house for my spring break would be the best time of year to weed whack. Guess I’m wrong." Theresa's eyes follow her mother's in pursuit of a whitish-gray trail rising to the sky.

After earning a graduate degree in psychology at 45, Theresa decided she wanted to live in a city, any city with less fear and more rain. She started working at a community college in Washington with a small therapy practice. Leaving her house to be occupied by her mother, Theresa promised to come back to California for a week every year to take care of the never-ending job of weed whacking and being the well-educated, doting daughter. Theresa moves, leaving Blair to find solace in her church, clubs, and the heat. This move wasn't hard for Theresa because as they grew older they also grew apart. Blair understood Theresa’s need for escape despite not agreeing with her whims.

"There isn't a wrong or right when the world's changing." Blair leaves her post to take a seat on the couch after a long day of church meetings and political clubs, mediating the flames of local opinions and passions. She grabs the remote, flipping the channels for the closest local news covering segments of the area and occasionally the county they resided in, only when it was ablaze. The background buzz was no longer records of classics that rang out through the many houses they lived in, but now it was the ever present radio listing the endless threats.

"Is the climate changing your local wine grapes? Find out after the commercial break." After a couple of minutes of commercials and stories of smoke tainted California grapes, a snore rises from the couch, echoing through the house. Theresa gets up from her paperwork, looking at her mother resting peacefully. Wishing Thersa could someday feel that peace again, where she could put one of her mother’s old records on and sing freely to the music as she did as a child. Now no one could feel like a child in this town, this inferno. Whether Theresa was in the California house or in Washington for work, she could never rest during the endless hot season. She would spend nights upon nights awake, listening to the radio through her laptop, while scrolling for updates on social media, and obsessively watching any little burn. Theresa presses her t-shirt to her chest, mopping up her sweat, then gets up to move the big fan to face her sleeping mother.

*          *          *

           March 16, 1835

I live in an estate built atop the sand. The foundation forms cracks and crevices, shifting with the earth’s movement. I can walk through our estate to the wall of memories of young women pressed to live up to an image. An image of my mother and her mother and her mother. The image of lineage is crafted as a ship unto a single body, the body of a woman, the woman of the house. Prim and delicate like a pressed flower in a book, separate from knowledge but poised, present, and inserted next to the social spheres. Yet, there are no words prescribed for these petals. Words... do they not fall short? Words are unable to fully calculate the essence generated by the flower, is that not why we press them into books? To keep and remember, to look at that essence as complete and abstract. Language falls epically short of capturing its boundaries. So, I will allow myself to gaze longer than one ought to at the flowers. I am hoping for a day there will be words that embody each unique life that the earth carries.

My fate has been deemed more useful in other callings, my calling as a lady and a wife, all before my twentieth year on this earth. Although, I was allowed more innocence than others. I must be grateful. Fearfully I foresee no future where I can live without the accompaniment of a man. Now instead of my father, it shall be a stranger whom I will serve. Perhaps when I wed this man, there will also be a crack in the foundation creeping up my future house. The walls where we shall hang our portrait cover the imperfections growing on the wall, like in my family home. There is a portrait of my father and mother with resolve-filled faces as the earthly divide crept up the wall, sprouting between them. Will I look the same in my destined place painted alongside a stranger I soon will know? Like all women in my family, I shall be an obedient God-fearing woman, and I will be proud of the match chosen by my father.

Of course, I will miss the presence of the ocean edge. Every day the beach allows me to explore the grains of sand, new and old, washed up by the murky blue waves. An unknown part of creation, its powerful beauty instills fear into the hearts and minds of all. I will miss the movement of the waves as they reach out towards the land and the people, then reach back into the depth. As if the ocean knows we are here and knows of us but stays true to its creation as the waves join to the larger body of rich blue. I will miss those blues as much as I will the tulip poplar in the front of our estate. I grew up sitting under this tree during the last decade of my life. When I was young, I would force myself to climb the branches until my dear mother, on the brink of an attack of fright, would run out to scold my bravery and joy. I felt like the world was mine to explore from the top of that tree. The tulip poplar began to bud this last winter. I expect this to be the year the flowers finally bloom. The last year of my childhood will send me off with the most beautiful gift.

As the days grow closer to my father's choice, I reflect on memories of the estate's beauty. Especially as my mother braids my long hair for the evening as I sit in front of the mirror in my bedroom. I can see her in the reflection tying up my curls, her wedding band sparkling in the candlelight. I try to envision myself in her place, but the image becomes so blurred and grotesque that I fear I may never become the image of my mother. The person I see in the mirror with skin like my own, yet it is a different beast of creation entirely. The skin looks like mine, but there is a force of difference, a force that begins to haunt me. How could this be what I see in the mirror?

With Fear and Love,

 Eudora Graham

 

*          *          *

  

            March 16

I live in an estate built atop the sand. Every day the foundation forms cracks and crevices, shifting with the earth’s movement. I walk through the estate to the wall of memories of younger days pressed to live up to an image of my mother and her mother and her mother. An image of lineage crafted as a ship unto a single body, the body of a woman, the woman of the house. Prim and delicate like a pressed flower in a book, separate from knowledge but still and present, no words inscribed on these petals. Words… do they not fall short? Words are unable to fully calculate the essence of the flower, is that not why we press them into books? To keep and remember, to look at that essence so indescribable? Language falls epically short. So I will allow myself to gaze for longer than one ought to at the flowers, hoping one day there will be words that suffice to embody each unique life that the earth carries.

Although my fate has been deemed more useful in other callings, my calling as a lady and a wife, all before my twentieth year on this earth. I suppose I was allowed more time than others and I must be grateful. Fearfully I foresee no future where I can live without the accompaniment of a man and now instead of my father, it shall be a stranger who I serve. Perhaps when I wed, there will also be a crack in the foundation and creeping up my future husband’s house walls. The walls where we shall hang our portrait to cover the imperfections growing on the wall, like in my own family’s home. There is a portrait of my father and mother with faces filled with resolve as the earth’s crack creeps up the wall, sprouting between the two of them. Will I look so resolved in my predestined place, painted along with the stranger I will soon unfold and know? As all women in my family, I shall be an obedient God-fearing woman, and I will be proud of the match chosen for me by my father.

Of course, I will miss the presence of the ocean’s edge, every day a beach for me to explore the grains of sand, new and old, washed up by the murky blue waves. What a beast of creation, it's powerful beauty instilling fear into the hearts and minds of all who fear the unknown. I will miss the movement of the waves, reaching out towards the land, the people,  then reaching back into its own depth. As if the ocean knows we are here and knows of us but stays true to its creation as the waves join to the larger body of rich blue.

I will miss those blues as much as I will miss the tulip poplar in the front of our estate. Often I find myself sitting under the tree I grew up with during the last decade of my life. When I was young I would force myself to climb the branches until my dear mother, on the brink of an attack of fright, would run out to scold my bravery and joy. I felt as though the world was mine to explore from the top of that tree. The tulip poplar has begun to bud this last winter and I expect this to be the year the flowers finally bloom. The last year of my glorious childhood will send me off with the most beautiful gift.

As the days have gotten closer to my father’s decision, I find myself reflecting on the beauty of the estate. Especially as my mother prepares my long hair for the night’s rest as I sit in front of the mirror in my bedroom. I see her in the reflection tying up my curls, her wedding band sparkling in the light of the candle. I try to envision myself in her place but the image becomes so blurred and grotesque that I fear I may never become the image of a woman as my mother has. The person I see in the mirror with skin so like my own is a different beast of creation entirely. As much as it looks of myself, there is a mighty force of difference, a force that begins to haunt me. How could this be what I see in the mirror? Is it some sign of my future or a specter intending to do me harm? Should I tell my mother or father, or will they think I have fallen far into madness?

 

With Fear and Love,

 Eudora Graham