Moving from California to the Deep South marked the end of my early childhood. Though I wasn’t yet sexually aware, I was already carrying a heavy load in my 7-year-old female body and spirit. Because we didn’t have room in the car for extra luggage, I left behind more than I wanted to. I also brought things I didn’t want or need. Here’s what I’ve unpacked from my suitcase as of today. I have no doubt there’s more. Read the rest of this entry »
passing through
silent white headstones
urge me on
* * * * *
Sister #3
who showed me
how to live and how to die
My Colleague
who told his family story
with tears streaming down his face
My Piano Teacher
who knew me inside out
and told me I needed a boyfriend
My Mother
who began to know me
inside out and longed to know more
My Brother-in-Law
who never told anything
but the full blunt-naked truth about life
My Theology Professor
who encouraged me to speak in
my distinct voice without shame or apology
My Quaker Employer
who thanked me in writing for
relational gifts I didn’t know I possessed
Members of a Great Cloud of Witnesses
gone in body from this earth
present in my spirit
Haiku written 18 August 2012
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 4 March 2014
Summer 1951
I’ve been wanting to write you a private letter for a long time. Mother and Daddy won’t let me send you letters they haven’t read first. They don’t want me to tell you anything sad or anything about money. But I’m not going to show them this letter. It’s just for you. Read the rest of this entry »
Is there a better question? This past week I searched for an answer to ‘Where is my Mother?’ But I couldn’t find one; I kept getting mired in unfathomable complexity. Yes, Mother was a complex person, especially in contrast to my father. But I needed to find another approach. Read the rest of this entry »
iced ground wind-whipped snow
mother squirrel looks for scarce food
huddled nestlings wait
* * * * *
She’s sitting on the frigid deck rail outside my kitchen window.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating hot breakfast.
Her nipples stand out—she has babies to feed.
Her coat is heavy, tangled, patchy, worn.
She watches me from her icy perch.
She seems anxious, haggard.
She doesn’t rest for long.
The babies are hungry.
So is she.
I can’t help thinking about Mother. Especially after we moved out of our communal Southwest home into our one-family Southeast home. Yes, it was quiet, less frenetic. Good for Mother’s health. But I wonder.
Being on our own as a family is a shock. Mother is still recovering from polio, finding ways to live life without bodily functions she can’t take for granted anymore. Yet no matter how she feels, we need to eat. Three times a day.
I think about our communal home. Here’s what Mother can’t count on anymore:
Granted, it wasn’t paradise. People had to get along with each other. Some seemed to do more of their fair share than others. But we weren’t hungry, and Mother wasn’t responsible for getting it all on the table three times a day.
Haiku written 12 January 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 16 February 2014
Sister #3
It’s 1949. I’m 6 years old. Sister #3 is 6 months old and still nursing. She’s sitting on my parents’ bed with Father and me. He’s playing with her—a little game of reach and grab. He asks me to watch and see whether she’s moving her left arm. No, she is not. Read the rest of this entry »
A Note to Mother
I still wonder where you were when I needed an advocate, a safe listening ear, a cheerleader and a comforter. I also wonder why you thought I would be able to deal with my father without any help from you.
Since you’re not here anymore, Read the rest of this entry »
carolina wren
peers into old beer bottle –
empty still Read the rest of this entry »
I wish I knew. As a child I asked her to tell me her story. Sometimes she gave me bits and pieces, but she didn’t seem to think her story was very important. Especially if that meant talking about how she felt when she was growing up. Besides, there was always another baby in her arms needing attention. Read the rest of this entry »
she sits silent
focused and determined
not to eat
A Short Story
Suppertime, early in the 1950s
Sister #3 sits in her high chair Read the rest of this entry »
