when my mama got real bad.
He came with a suitcase
and a trunk, and a jar full of dirt
from a garden in France,
where mama used to play.
He was old, as old as
the sea turtles, maybe older,
but daddy said, no,
Papa had lost his youth in the war -
kind of like losing a leg,
only worse.
My mama stopped crying
for a while - she didn’t
curl up in corners or pound on walls,
and when she looked into the jar
it was as if it had been filled with fireflies,
all glowing pretty green.
Papa touched mama's face,
said things to her that daddy and I
could not understand;
I suppose he was telling my mama stories
to make her happy again -
stories, Papa said, had saved his life.
He stayed for a long time,
then one day he had to go home,
and when daddy drove Papa away,
mama held my hand so tight it hurt -
I began to write stories after that,
not quite sure whose life I was trying to save.
Adding your comment:
Good job
meg
)
Love you. Lane
