Sista, Granma, Mum

“Sista, granma, mum”

 
          The sun is rising over the quaint little one story home, waking and warming the cool night spirit to welcome the warmth and the colors of a new day. Against a pale blue sky, the moon and sun, switch their places above the shear white brush- -stroke-like clouds. The air is fresh and crisp.
 
          This clean and tidy home is furnished with simple useful things, tired and worn from use, old enough to have stories. It is filled with sunlight and the smell of baking, as a tiny God fearing woman moves through her daily rituals, preparing for another family gathering.
 
          She is simply dressed in a neatly pressed skirt and blouse. Her small fragile frame supported by feet that have plodded many a mile. Her hair coarse and somewhat matted is black peppered with gray. Her face is a smooth translucent chestnut color, with dark wide eyes and a stiff upper lip, showing a submissive tranquility.
 
          Her gentle pace showing signs of fatigue pauses with a sight rock in her upper body. Her skin pales and the wrinkles of age set in. Her eyes down looking almost closed, her face grimaces as if almost to cry. With her shoulders rounding and her legs no longer able to support her enfeebled body she clasps her hands together and comes to rest. She is again, momentarily struck by the grief of loved ones lost, a sight of overwhelming subservience.
 
          Raising her head she stares blankly into space, and drifts, a certain hush overtakes her very nature. Is she, perhaps, replacing the grief with fond childhood memories? Tending the goats, chickens, and cultivating the fields with her father, under the watchful eye of her mother? The walks along the railroad tracks and play with the friends of her youth, or perhaps cleaning fish with her brothers. As these memories now begin to fade, her face begins to show a peace and contentment, her head tilts and she leans slightly, as if listening to voices in her head calling out to her “sista” “sista”.
 
          With a sudden jolt, as if awakened from a dream, she raises her head with a slight tilt and stairs blankly at the wall. Her eyes widen, pictures of her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren, begin to come into focus. There is a knock as the door is flung wide and a flock of scurrying little feet fan out. There are voices once more, “granma”, “granma”. Her face becomes animated, bright with the color of life. Her arms drive her to her feet and envelop each one with a body of gentle warmth and the feeling of safe home. Her soft voice stuttering somewhat with words of simplicity and compassion, greet each and every one.
 
          On her feet again, she is invigorated, as if becoming the energy surrounding her. She is like the water, thoughtlessly finding its path, the seasons mindlessly fulfilling the year. She will continue through the day from where she left off, without complaint, ever mindful of the needs of all her children.
 
          The sun now sets on this home and gathering, allowing its warmth that is past to soothe, as it reveals the night sky with all its wonder in the brightness of the moon and the pinholes of light in the blanket of the universe. As it is with this rhythm of nature, so it is also with my “mum”.