Shináli, my paternal grandmother, transitioned back to Spirit this past New Years Eve. I was asked to write a poem for her funeral, spent all night on this one, & want to acknowledge that I did edit myself. For example, I wanted to write about how she knew about my queerness, the way her prayers kept me alive, how we are both birthworkers & this is part of her legacy, & about her mother & first born. But I didn't. I was, & still am to some degree, afraid of what might be said in response. I still like this piece. It is still accurate. The love is still present. ........................................................................................................... i imagine she was so busy because she wanted to leave as little as possible to chance her constant state of prayer was how she kept her whisper contsant in god’s ear her constant state of prayer was how she kept god’s whisper contatant in her ear there are lots of things i’ll never know about the woman Lucy Pete Holiday, but i know two things: i know her as shináli & i know her love is proof that we never survive alone. my memory of shináli is seared with her signature hairstyle of short black curly hair with blouses, skirts, & an apron to wipe her hands on with the soft clang of drawing water, metal brushing metal with the soft pad of socks & sandals about her linoleum floor my memory of shináli is laid out on her kitchen table covered in clear plastic & place mats in her perfect yeast rolls in the sugar-free jam that hung out with her reduced sodium salt we had to use & the small jar of nutella in the way she would sit & drink her sanka before anyone else stirred my memory of shináli wakes me from sleep with the sound of peeling potatoes of frying bacon & eggs of the ever present oatmeal of her sing-songy speak my memory of shináli talks to me like the bubble of her secret pubby crunch-crunch recipe that made our own dog chubby with care that made it easy for our pubby to say goodbye from her gate do you want it? the recipe? maybe you have one of your own, but here’s hers: keep all your leftovers & vegetable peelings put them in a big pan begin to soften them with water add leftover meats keep stirring keep singing & then add the gravy i have no recipe for let it cool down dump into the pubby’s bowl keep their devotion forever & ever, amen my memory of shináli is accompanied by the familiar way wood & coal used to sit by her door, the way bullheads would hide in the walkway, the mint green ant-looking patterns of her kitchen floor, the summer our feet were the same size & she gave me all the shoes, of folding myself up to fit in the cab of her truck so we could all go to blue coffee pot in kayenta, & in all the bottles & jars of lotions & perfumes lined up atop her dresser. my memory of shináli cools my anxious skin like her laundry room with shelves of treasures—jars of buttons & shelves of ivory soap & the bleach that kept everything & everyone clean. my memory of shináli vibrates in my bones like her daily devotionals & soft metallic glint of her smile & high pitched easy laugh & the way she never wanted to fussed over & how we almost melted her cake one year we lit all the appropriate candles & she had to blow the out by fanning with a paper plate. our birthdays are a week apart—i wonder if she liked that? i imagine that we share qualities of tough exterior to those that don’t know us, soft, glistening interior to those that do, a penchant for feelings that betray us, & a devotion to home & family that digs deeper roots as time passes. she knew that she was ready, that this world is often too hard to wrap finite minds around, & that is why i know there are some days i am only able to keep my feet here because of the strength of her prayers for me. my memory of shináli is alive through me. Comments are closed.
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