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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When I was a young woman Just embarking on my own life My grandmother departed and Left me a special gift – A small, delicately framed Faded black and white photograph Of a long foot worn path running Through a tall field of wildflowers With a pointed church steeple in the distance And in the bottom corner - In my grandmother’s tiny European scrawl - A title – as I read it then – “A Lonely Path.” I knew she had given it to me To remind me of her and the time We had travelled together A few years earlier Back to her childhood homeland To the small German village where She had lived with her grandmother And walked this very path. In my grief, holding the picture The title felt fitting - as I knew From the stories I learned On our journey to the place Of her lost and sad youth That she walked a lonely path For many years of her life. Illegitimate, abandoned by her father Even before her birth Sent away by her mother who Couldn’t live with the pain of Seeing her child’s face So much like her absent father’s Only to be brought back later Like a real-life Cinderella To care for her stepsisters Until bravely leaving Germany On her own at seventeen To find a new path to walk in America and a family of her own. And now, half a lifetime later Recovering from long term illness I feel pulled to revisit family history And realize upon studying The photograph on the wall In my front hall that I have walked by For many years now with a tinge of sadness That maybe I had read my grandmother’s title All wrong. Rereading the note taped on the back That she had written just to me - This is the view from Grandmother’s house The meadow full of wildflowers We would hear the Angelus ring from That church steeple at six in the morning, Twelve noon, and six in the evening – That meant run home , no matter what play And pray the Angelus – I still love to hear church bells! I see now the title she really gave the photograph - And maybe her life too - was “A Lovely Path” And yet, as I continue to regard My grandmother’s handwriting I can see both titles reflected there, Like one of those images that changes Shapes as the light hits it from different angles And I knew that her real gift to me was knowing that we each walk our own lonely and lovely path
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