Flown and Gone in Gentle Grace

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Jacqueline Trestrail

31 May 1932 ~ 20 July 1978

I “What in carnation is this?”, A July sun breaks my winter sleep, and ghosts in the fog my only peace. This early morning hoar chills the flesh and marrow, and the rains of discontent neither cleanse nor cease II I hear “Caramba Chico!”, this room, it reminds me so of you. See the picture portrait, your silky hair, the dark ceramic lamp of rings, your canvas brush stroke, your books upon your shelf, your lonely empty chair III Verily so in older days a dry Penfolds filled your sherry glass, when you of me did ask “is the table set?”. And I ask what’s for dinner - pelau or maybe ham and hops to thankful fill, but you say “boy, tonight is macafouchette” IV “Christopher Columbus!”, garden earth and buds dug in kneeling. How you liked among the cuttings to tread, or in slow quiet pause gently sip a tall sparkling shandy, light a cigarette, write a letter or turn an epic page unread V “Jeez-an-ages! For true?”. Stolen moments to drudgery escape in the garage pedaling the potter’s wheel. Alas into wet muddy clay buried great burden and pain. I remember well dear Mother, how contented it made you feel VI As the hour grew late I would camp upon your bed a while. Lay beside you - feel your warm breath, and oft watch you nightly read of love, life and loss - but “Aye Caramba” nigh was your own tale of horror and death VII “Murderation! Is that so?”, a great reckoning there was to come - no saving and no respite from sorrows. Keeper, but not mine to keep - healer, but not yours to heal. Now all we have are yesterdays and no tomorrows VIII “Jumping Jehoshaphat!”, out of the land of Isla de la Trinidad landed crates of tins and jars from home. But Mother, filled was I by your cup, its love and succour real and everlasting, and yet passed is a glory that was your own IX Oh, how the music played, closer and louder the beating drums - Calypso Rose the Calypso Queen to be. When we at Carnival ‘78 danced down Frederick Street, but the music died and now I long for its sweet melody X “Chuts!” Not hug, not kiss, not gaze passed between us ever again but for last sad audience in lifeless trace. Yet I did on wings of sudden flight hearken to the soul of a hummingbird on the wind flown and gone in gentle grace Written: July 1993 Note: Native Amerindians of Trinidad believed hummingbirds to be the souls of their ancestors. My mother used some wonderful expressions.

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