Her Name Was Helena

grandma never knew her name until she was an adult and it was Helena (some kind of birth certificate mix up) she embraced her new found name it was lovely sliding off the lips like a waterfall later, she found her Ojibwe roots and I hear the drums of my ancestors in my heart beating grandma was our family storyteller she fascinated me and sparked my imagination I would watch her lips as she spoke how her voice changed how her facial expressions changed I never grew tired of listening to her stories stories told over and over until her death of people and places nothing was written down they died with her. . . I think that was meant to be grandma had given me a book a journal for my small girl thoughts and told me- write it, write it write it, for the world to know so I did, I wrote in my room stories about my cat and flowers in time, I wrote of my sadness that made grandma cry I had a gift just like Helena I was a storyteller but in words a poet was born in a old attic room I was lost in a sea of emotions everyday over tea I would read my words for Helena, I was able to pour my heart and soul on paper my skill grew with me like a cool rippling stream the drums of time ceased for my Helena and I wrote and read her eulogy my heart swelled with a sea of tears then, I heard weeping echoing in the church within the stained glass window glow and I knew then that I had a power Helena's gift... I had inherited because of her I am a writer the bond between us a delicate flower and she had said to this sad little girl find the sweetness in the dregs of sorrow for life is a lighted window and a closed door _________________________ August 3, 2019 Poetry/Free Verse/Her Name Was Helena Copyright Protected, ID 19-1122-142-02 All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.