When my grandmother died,
we marveled to find notes
tucked in jewelry boxes,
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”
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.
What a lovely poem and your ending took my breath away. Bravo!
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.
Yes Leah! I want to leave notes everywhere for Nash to discover someday!
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.