Offering

When my grandmother died,

we marveled to find notes

tucked in jewelry boxes,

coat pockets,

beaded handbags and books.

Dorothy Evert carefully recorded

bits of family history

for us to find like Easter eggs.

The porcelain dove figurine

nurses a broken wing.

Shaped to hold calling cards or

perhaps small treats

on a dining table,

the gentle vessel reveals

a folded note in my grandmother’s hand…

“My mother’s mother (Kate Faber Remine)

was paralyzed for 10 years —

she died when I was 6 weeks old.

The minister (Reverend Stryker I think)

gave her communion in this one Whitsunday.”

I did not know the good reverend

or my great, great grandmother Kate.

But, history floats down

on the wings of my grandmother’s offering.

5 thoughts on “Offering

  1. Thank you for such a beautiful poem — and accompanying photograph — to start my day. The words of your grandmother are so tender, interwoven with your own.

    Like

  2. This makes me want to hide treasures in pockets and books. May we all leave such treasures for our loved ones to daydream about when we’re gone.

    Like

  3. Love this line,

    “But, history floats down

    on the wings of my grandmother’s offering.”

    Motivates me to hide treasures for my great, great grandchildren to discover.

    Like

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