Bio Note: An aging native of New Hampshire who has spent many years writing poetry, gardening and practicing curmudgeonly behavior to newcomers. Published here and there, a member of the John Hay Poetry Society, Newbury, NH and Connecticut Poetry Society.
Black and white. Faded. Ragged at the edges, my great-grandmother. On a grassy knoll she stands sideways, ramrod straight. Face like a hatchet. Stern. Her hand on her own shoulder, old house behind her. Below her sits her son, his hands around his knees, sleeves rolled, his work cap pulled down to his eyes. His wife now gone two years to the Spanish Flu. His daughter just turning four. In a few months he will be killed by a drunk driver as he gets off a bus. The old lady, as my great-uncle Charlie called her, would assume, again, her parenting in the good Christian manner with guidance from her all-knowing and unfailing God.
©2022 Robert Manchester
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