The Old Homestead

Orphaned footsteps round the old place. Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise, coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic. The long land screams within its own silence. Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge for the undulating grass and, those it serves. Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards its head - and the barely living turn to listen. The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for its self-professed being and looming enormity. She looks at the broken window glass and through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens. This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards; always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness. Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron, rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of – I lived. This mother of five young does not cry, just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps; to know them loved; hear the birdsong through unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking; feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living. The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole, marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own. The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence, welcoming her familiar face home. © Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009 *Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration; celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there every summer until it was gone...