Nana's Pen

Faded pages whisper of the woman who bore me. They whisper her heart, her dreams, her cares. I read and strain and caress the whispers.

Among the dusty musty stalls they sit. Once mighty oak, pine, maple. Hand-hewn, hand joined, hand shined. Beyond my will my fingers caress the grain. Warm still full of life. Made to contain possessions now harboring history waiting to be used again.

When wandering through the childhood recollections that populate the archives of my memories, I am astounded at the variety. Some memories are precious and cherished. Others are traumatic and painful. All of them unite and create the unique me. I cannot embrace the pleasant experiences and renounce the grievous episodes for it is only together that they complete my life. Far back nestled in the shadowy corners of my memory, I am still a three-year-old little girl in my great-grandfather’s farmhouse. If you sat me down today in the middle of the house, I probably would not recognize the walls or the rooms or the layout but I know I would still feel the house. My mind sees shadows. I do not know if that is because the house was shadowy. Maybe other memories have darkened this one or maybe my little-girl self was just lost in the shadows of the adults. My parents, my younger brother and I had just come from Germany where the U.S. Air Force had stationed my dad and Jimmy and I were born. W

A ladybug alighted alone on the sand. A heavy heart wandered nearby. The clean tide-washed sand stretched toward the sea; Alone, the ladybug and me. A gentle whisper in my hearts ear Came as I studied the bug. “I made and care for the little bug red, Do I less for you?” He said. Reminded again of Creator’s kind care My spirit eased of its strain. The ladybug mounted aloft on the wind Her destination afar. The cumbersome burden my human heart bore Lifted with her toward the shore.

In my place between wake and slumber exists a platform, a waiting spot for the dream train. Weathered wood planks roughened by time and elements joined by rust crusted square spikes. Wind whispering, stars shining, no covering in sight. Ancient iron tracks stretch from horizon to beyond beckoning the dream train. On a night my mind’s self reposes there, labors, worries, and joys jumbled in thought until I board the dream train.