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2006 Third Place Poetry
Sneaking through the living room,
seeking the kitchen on slippered five-year-old feet,
I could hear the whispers of Manma and my Mother.
They often talked about family history when together,
heads bent close, conspiratorial,
Speaking so softly, I could barely hear the words
around the corner.
Proud Tennesseans for generations,
sometimes the closet door was opened,
the skeleton allowed to speak.
Making no noise (not easy for a child!)....I listen,
Manma whispered—Shamrock....angry....red
What?!! Just a child, yet smart enough to know,
there is no such thing as a red Shamrock!
Through the years, the whispers continued,
each overheard whisper adding a piece to the puzzle
assembling in my head.
Manma whispered—Pharmacist....daughter....married
I collected whispers like apples in a basket,
jumbled, disjointed words that I knew
could be rearranged into a story....somehow.
Mother whispered—hair....grandfather....Scottish
As we are prone to do, I grew up and grew older,
while the whispering continued.
Manma and Mother had whispered for twenty years,
but the words were never spoken out loud.
Manma whispered—son-in-law....drank....gun
Manma passed away, leaving behind another grown
generation of proud Tennesseans,
putting yet more distance between the whispered events
and the present.
I decided it was my responsibility to fill the void
left with Manma’s passage.
So I finally asked Mother, "What did the whispers mean?"
Mother whispered—Shadrach....great-grandfather....self defense
Mother whispered—dead
Peering around the corner to make sure no little ears
were eavesdropping,
I whispered—Tell me more....
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