|
| |
Appalachian Homecoming
You were born here,
Blue Ridge foothills,
spirits of Cherokee in
Appalachia's olden heart and veins.
Scots-Irish influence of beloved
bluegrass,
moonshine of the drinking kind.
Your parents weren't the responsible
type,
as you and your three sisters spent
your childhoods in foster care and were
once left with your mother's cruel friend
for two years,
you went through so much.
Your single grandmother Robbie
did the best she could,
a beautician on her feet all day.
Her white farmhouse with no
indoor bathroom,
and an outhouse in the yard.
She fried okra better than anyone,
grew an acre of tobacco.
You were living in Texas,
joined the Navy at nineteen,
and it became your home.
We met within its ranks,
survivors of child abuse.
We wed, weren't wealthy.
We raised our daughter after
returning to your hometown.
You walked her down the aisle,
and treasured our son-in-law,
and grandchildren too.
You passed at the age of
fifty-nine,
interred by a gentle stream
in the Veterans Cemetery,
where someday I'll also be.
Appalachian Homecoming,
as banjos and dulcimers play softly. ~
Copyright ©
Regina Elliott
|
|