Heirloom

This lady on my ring,

Ghostly White-

yet warmed by sunset stone.

Do I know her?

This lady on my ring,

weds my finger

of aged gold

as if I should know her.

She looks like me,

the lady on my ring.

Still in motion,

yet alive in thought.

I must know her.

She speaks to me,

the lady on my ring.

Calling to me,

A lion’s roar,

muffled by oak and velvet.

I do know her!

This lady on my ring,

from my grandmother’s treasures,

lost her voice,

But found it anew

With Me.

This lady on my ring,

she has stories to tell.

Adventures to see.

But my grandmother’s stories fade.

And adventures become myth.

I feel her loss- it’s mine too.

This lady on my ring,

Is not one lady.

But adventurers

and storytellers,

Found again-

within me.

My poem, Heirloom, is a narrative poem about finding a ring of my grandmother’s. As she has dementia, she cannot remember much of anything anymore. So this was my experience of finding a ring of hers that really spoke to me and in some-way, allowed me to connect with her, and our lineage, even more.

Tay O

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