This is one of my favorite photos of my grandmother and me. She passed away last year on Good Friday, a synchronicity I think she would’ve loved. She was- complicated. Strong-willed, hot-tempered, southern, and ever watchful for impending doom.

Like natural disasters and the return of Jesus. She was a prepper before that was a thing. A mama hen who built her nest, stockpiled it with all the necessities (and much, much more) and waited for the sky to fall. Certain it would, certain she would be ready.

Her faith was admirable, if not misguided.

I wrote this poem a few years ago when she was still the person who would call and check on us whenever there was a natural disaster within a 150-mile radius. “Are you okay?” She’d ask, concern and love mirrored equally in her voice. I’ve been thinking of her today, wishing she was still the one sharing all the family gossip, connecting us through near-misses, and always reminding us to come home. 💗

News Reports from My Grandmother

The Taliban have entered Kabul!
Canada is on fire!
The virus is mutating!
Invisible to our naked eye
we breathe in smoke, 
disease, disaster.

My grandmother waits patiently 
for the world to end.
A final apocalypse,
she turns gaze heavenward
sure a Savior is coming.

The herald of bad news, 
a curator of tragedy,
“We are in a state 
of hopelessness,
redemption a feat
beyond our capability,”
she cries.

The news anchors 
seem to agree, reporting
the worst of humanity-
floods, famines, war.
We are scarce and scared,
better off dying and dead.

I say I don’t watch the news
but this isn’t true.
I watch the daily turning
of leaves from green to red,
listen to the birds
report each day’s dawn.

I hear my friends celebrate
their firstborn,
eyes mirroring their joy,
my body’s own story like braille, 
hunger and grief, 
raised bumps on skin.

These headlines are subtle,
do not shout or coerce,
require a deep, slow unfolding, 
absent fear and adrenaline.

Yet the visuals are no less stunning-
a broken blue egg
speaks of first flight,
wings unfurled in spite 
of a burning sky.

The first time
holding a paintbrush
dipped in brilliant hues,
or the thousandth time
hands touch piano keys,
nimble notes a hymn 
or prayer of praise.

We are more than despair,
disappointment and greed.
Breaking news 
can also mend, 
today’s headline reminds:
The Stars Still Shine
in the Darkest of Night
(and so must we).