Foremothers’ Solace

Late afternoon,
waning sunlight streaming in,
the familiar, repetitive work
of keeping a household afloat
finished for the day,
I rest.

It occurs to me how hard
my foremothers must have worked
to achieve the same goal
and I wonder if they shared
these rare moments of repose.

I remember my mother
at her bedroom window,
children’s chaos tuned out momentarily,
watching the birds
at the backyard feeder.

And what of my grandmother?
Was she ever able
to lay down her heavy burden
and rest contentedly
beside the warm kitchen fire?

Did my great-grandmother,
exhausted by single-handedly
raising eight children,
find solace, as I do,
on her porch,
taking in the soft evening light?

I know so little about them,
just flat, one-dimensional pictures.
The dailiness of their lives
has vanished forever.

And yet,
their blood courses through me.
Their lost stories
are the invisible bedrock
on which my life is built.

There is pain in me
that was borne before I was,
a sense of triumph
that is beyond my own experience.
My very being is the result
of their determination.

As dusk settles in,
I find solace in knowing that,
deeper than my consciousness,
their truths live on in me
and through me,
in my children and grandchildren.

By Maria Brady-Smith