The eldest sister of my Grandmothers' siblings
told me,
They would take rocks
from atop the wood burning stove in the kitchen
and carry them to school,
clutching these in their pockets as they walked.
Sometimes they would stay warm all day,
if you knew where to hide them
for later.
They did this every winter.
The walk in the snow to school
was not an ascent.
It was a privilege to go to school,
she often said.
She also said she pined for a pony,
and being first born-
she believed anything was possible.
She got a goat. She named it Eddie.
Eddie followed her to school.
She taught him math,
addition and subtraction,
and some simpler sentences.
Four was his favorite number.
Being the first (and last) born
from the middle sisters' daughter,
I understood her silly stories
greater than
the rest.
I remember
I saw no difference
between the rocks and the goat.
A smooth rock sitting in the sun
is not safe from my fingers or pocket,
by relation
I am compelled to carry the heavy load,
alone.
The slag added up
to more than four pockets could carry.
Painting by János Tornyai [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
