The picture painted by the Author the image that that lives on in her imagination.
Aunt Francis played a great part in my younger years. She came to live with us when I was about six-years old. One Saturday morning I saw daddy coming down the road with his two old mules pulling the old cotton wagon. In the wagon sat a very large black lady in an old rocking chair, a beat-up black trunk next to her. Daddy called to me and I ran to the wagon, he told me that the lady was Aunt Francis and that she would be living with us. He unloaded her stuff into a one room, one window shack; it was already furnished with bed and old cook stove. It was clean and it was a fine place to live according to Aunt Francis. She lived with us until we left the farm moving into the city of Decatur, Alabama when I was twelve-years old. She loved me from the day she arrived as if she were my mother, she played games with me, she prayed over me and she taught me how to be a proper southern lady.
Another spring for Aunt Francis…
Her knees bent forward away from the worn
out rocker, her legs getting their bearings she
made a puckered brow while looking out the
window at the garden. Everything dies she
thought; soon the fragrance of spring will be
She narrows her eyes looking into the
hedgerow at the end of her flowerbed to see
if the sparrow hawks have returned, slowly
she turns keeping contact with the old rocking
chair, holding onto its worn arms. After
one-hundred listless summers, her soul still
feeds on the emotions of the stillness, the
sweet-scented honeysuckle growing around
Holding her breath she falls back into the chair,
it shudders under her weight. She knows not to
take her being able to stand for granted. Closing
her eyes to rest, bible in hand, and her thoughts
were none other than that she could get back up
another time to fill her heart with the wonders of
the old flower garden, would there be another spring.
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A Passage into Madness
Poetry from A Passage into Madness
I have enough memories from the past to last me for the rest of my life. My unstinted memory will not bury them so deep that I cannot bring them to the surface in a moment’s notice.
In the deep recesses of my mind, I see a small country church, a chorus of crows; the splashing sounds of the brook running through the Birch trees. The wind caressing the colossal row of Oaks in the field. All memories from my early days.
I see death, going down the road moving away from the weathered house of worship, a wagon that carried my beloved Aunt Francis; I envisioned it being followed by feathered angels. No longer will the little branch of water beneath the Birch taste fresh and cool, nor will the winds surrounding the Oaks in the pasture embrace warm flesh.
I relive a sad memory, my great-grandmother’s heart has been silenced, and the rocker on the porch stilled, no hand wave’s goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the room where she slept, the sun shines through a cloudy window, as the image of tattered curtains dance in a nearby cracked mirror. Everyone we love soon leaves us. Sitting on the steps of that old weathered church, I have but one memory it is that childhood is dead.