River

The force that endured,

that raged,

that cut through

and created

the Grand Canyon

is hard to visualize.

Her eyes were a river’s ribbon

of steely blue

raging

and cutting through

five hundred years

of brown-eyed Turkish domination,

somehow enduring

to flow into my veins.

“Luba” ~

the Macedonian word

for love ~

in any language:

complicated.

I loved her sweet smile,

her crocheted treasures,

Christmas cookies

like no others,

the twinkle in her eye;

yet never did she let me in,

her magic and her mystery

were her own,

I could see

that all her love and loyalty

rested only with her son

not her daughters

(one, my mother):

I did not like him.

Strange accent and strange beliefs;

her past distorted

and unknown to me,

her perspective

from another time and place,

my love was tinged by distance

that I could not cross;

never as close to her

as to my other grandmother,

whose sweet sad elegance

seemed more familiar.

Her complications conspired

to preserve the reserve

from which she saw the world;

it rarely cracked.

I could not see

her protective wall

for what it was;

her strength escaped me,

only later would I see it,

could I know it,

long after she was gone,

and my own steely-eyed children

chose their middle names

Luba and Alexander ~

their homage

to a Macedonian past,

and her.

I can see her reserve

in their eyes;

I know now,

finally

what she saw,

understanding

what lay behind

her laughter ~

it had its own accent,

an echo down through time,

that mirrored the twinkle

in her ice-blue eyes ~

like a river,

raging,

cutting,

like a secret flash,

enduring wisdom,

a knowing unshared

like the never-revealed

ingredient in a recipe ~

her secret,

she alone

knew the punchline.

“I survived.”

© ACG

13 November 2010