Marie

Marie. Her name was Marie.  Marie
Of long ago laughter of the wilderness in which her life was fashioned. Her hands always busy making the baby’s, making the meals, making her worth in long hours of hard labor whether in wagons in youthful play or trunks filled with the belongings of her dead boy. I made no reference to Marie’s pain while she worked in her old worlds kitchen where the bread baked in the cast iron oven or the butter was churned by callused hands long wooden paddle splashing until rich moist butter was formed in the old crockery on the kitchen floor. Washing with lye soap my mother did as her mother had done before her. No improvements came to the house in the Appalachian Mountains of long ago with no electricity to burn the lamps but kerosene to fill before light faded from the day.  Mother in words left unsaid because now she is dead with no time to recapture a moment left untreated from days gone by. Shine my light from under the covers of darkness and force myself to go to sleep instead of remembering the icy cold hands of what was left unspoken. Her breath was sweet on my cheek the few times she kissed me there. My Marie her time left her without answers to the questions that needed words of mother’s love to unfurl around us the wee little ones who still cry out in the darkness of our old age. It is a tragedy to see that no other person can be found to talk to that really makes any difference.  Mom. Grandma. Marie. Her name was as different to everyone as she was to me.  Holy, Holy, Holy, breath taking Holy. Because Holy can hide a lot of insane moments can’t they?  No other can worry about me. None other can wipe away the torment that falls like rain around me as my eyes open to daylight without having spoken my pain to her. Marie. Won’t you please listen to me.