When we drove out with Aunt Ruth
To that place outside of Parkersburg
With the old, run down barn,
And the trees pushed over in a big pile,
Covering a house that used to stand
Right there in that spot,
That we didn't see,
Just a pile of concrete,
All busted up
In the middle of a bean field,
Already harvested in late September,
As the clouds hung low all afternoon,
Before the eclipse of the supermoon,
That this is where my grandmother stood
When she was your age,
Ten,
With her mother,
Tilly Wynn.
I had never been there before,
Nor your Aunt Ruth,
Nor Natalie.
We went there to see the house,
With your aunts,
And Abram, Teddy, and Max,
And Jack Bob,
But it was gone,
Pushed down into the ground,
Covered up with oak trees and old tires,
Set to be burned up in a fire,
I imagine.
Some poems are written to hold ideas,
Or to say something new.
Others just hold memories.
This is one of that kind.
Remember, too, the bees,
Buzzing into that hole at the base
Of a sick Catalpa tree,
Dead at the top,
But still fruiting long, brown pods
Beneath broad, green leaves,
Yellowing around the edges
At the beginning of Autumn.
There, you stood.
And though I'm sure you don't remember
That old woman with the chickens,
Nor do you know how they tasted,
Cooked up with noodles she rolled out by hand,
I do,
And I can tell you one thing for sure:
She knew your name
As she knew her own.
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