Recently, I obtained a desk from my grandfather, who is in the beginning stages of removing stuff from his life. Actually, there are a great many things I have received from a great many extended family members over the past few years. Part of the benefit of being a historian by training, curious and collective by nature, and an active participant in kinkeeping (a lovely term I recently picked up from the New York Times) is that when time comes for family members to divest themselves of things, or pass on, I am called to at the very least assist in the sorting, the removal, and the keeping.
When my uncle died, my task was his firearms. He also had a vast collection of magazines, including TIMEs from the 1940s showing images of the German invasion of Poland before the United States was even involved in the war. As my grandmother’s mind went, and my mother and I discovered she had been throwing away some of her recipes for years, I spirited the cards and printouts which remained to my apartment. Books from the family cabin have slowly accumulated in my apartment. One gather my uncle showed up with a box of photographs, fishing lures, and assorted trinkets from my now deceased aunt and the life they shared—simply wanting to be rid of them. I now have a picture, taken candidly, of my mother and her now dead sister talking on a rock outdoors. It is serene, and wonderful, and I am getting it framed.
This table was on its surface another of these—one which benefits my life in that it is the perfect size and shape to sit alongside my couch. It has wings and drawers and a wonderful finish and I’ve enjoyed it in the time I’ve had it. What I did not expect, nor even think to do, was to look in its drawers. A couple of days ago I finally poked around and discovered two handwritten poems from my now deceased grandmother, “Oma.”
Much like the recent discovery that she drew, finding out that Oma at least casually dabbled in poetry unleashed a mixture of emotions. I write, of course, and I know my mother wrote—I often point to her as my first big inspiration to write. I did not know Oma ever considered writing, and through the years of sharing what I was working on (sadly a love of fantasy was not a familial trait), did not mention that she ever had or did.
And now I sit, pouring over her cursive handwriting, parsing meaning from something she wrote when I was twelve years old. There’s a genuine sense of connection, and that everlasting sense of a missed connection which lingers on the periphery of recent death. We are coming up on a year since her passing. In that time, my family and I have learned more of grief and each other than even I expected. Oma was a great figurehead of our immediate extended family’s connectivity. Maintaining connections like that is difficult, and it’s humbling and somehow also heartening to know there are always things to miss. Always more to a person than you expect.
Below are the poems as interpreted by myself and several of my friends—special thanks to Liz, Sam, and Jackie for reviewing them with me. I also have written a response to the first poem, found further on.
Monday at the Lake
July, 2007
Heather Robinson
Screaming girls, pounding slaps,
engines rise and whine, gone in 30
seconds, only to return going south
after north.
Then—waves lay silent on the
shore; relief, until another bevy
of pulled kids moans by
Sounds of the lake on a Monday in
July. Technique, practice, improve
skills? These youngsters never heard
of these.
Will they even know the beauty
of the still, empty aura of
the water alone moving itself
to the shore?
Waves do lay silent, soon.
Sunday at the Lake,
July, 2007
Heather Robinson
Big boys, now men, need water
to rest
Swamp a boat, soothe muscles,
then gone is the stress
Let water flow in, flow on—
over and through
Next to his friend, the grass
and tendons go slow
No need for a sub when there’s
three men in a tub!
Thursday at the Lake
July, 2024
Justin X. M. Corriss
Peak of the day, peak of the season,
the lake screams still.
Mansions rise and drills whine.
Out of staters return, north
from south.
Evening, waves lay silent on the
shore, until the fireworks begin
Sounds of the lake on a Thursday in
July. I am no youngster anymore, but
I miss your techniques and skills—
unappreciated in your time.
To stand next to you again
in the still, empty aura of
the water alone moving itself
to the shore?
The lake goes silent, still.