Fretwork
By the time Mother took me to her birthplace—Bequia—
I was a fifth-grade wordsmith in a first-grader’s body.
H-o-m-e—too easy—was off my spelling list although
I didn’t know what home meant. I did not recognize my
Mother’s mother: she was the color of pitch and whether
she was pleased to see her daughter and me, she kept it to
herself, a mystery. “Tonight”, Mother said, “we’ll sleep
under cotton netting to keep the mosquitoes from eating
us up” and like the man who delivered his catch from
early sea light, her voice echoed. …
