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.