Читать книгу Confessions of a Barefaced Woman - Allison Joseph - Страница 12

How miserable you were,

unable or unwilling to do

comforting things expected

of grandmothers: making

pies or bedtime stories,

gardening on arthritic knees.

You had no friends that I

could see, attended no church,

loved no one but my father,

showed that love by whining

that you wanted to go back

to Grenada, only American insulin

keeping you in the States,

the diabetes he inherited

your only link. I never

saw you hug or kiss,

and you gave him a name

he could never live up to—

Everest—pinnacle of mountains,

highest of destinies. Did you

not touch my father because

his father left you, even though

you were the lightest-skinned

woman in the village?

Did you not touch my father

because his father had other

women, other sons? It’s hard

to picture you smiling—

in family photos your face

is stern, lips pressed together,

cat eye glasses hard around

suspicious eyes, tight curls

swept from your forehead.

I was too dark for you to love,

you who were proud to call yourself

“Grenada white.” So all

I carry of yours is a name—

Elaine—your first, my middle—

name of burden, of complaint.