Lineage
When
my parents died
and
we five girls
divvied
up their belongings,
I
became a proud owner
of
a WWI uniform,
stuffed
in a leather bag,
smelling
like death.
The
helmet, gas mask,
pants
and shirt, brown,
and,
oh, so small,
must
have shrunk
over
the century
because
my grandfather
wasn’t
that petite.
Or
was he,
at
twenty-something?
I
also inherited
my
dad’s WWII hat,
my
oldest sister, his purple heart
for
a head wound.
It’s
a wonder we’re here at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment