Grandma

I don’t know her name
I’m told she was bold and crude
I cannot recount the history of her time
Yet I’m told the marks on my forehead are hers

In 1939, he died
I’m told his grave is in this vicinity
I danced a homecoming dance around where I hope his bones may be
Summoning him to recognise me

She’s rumoured to have moved around
House to house with her goats and sheep
A woman alone with her young children
I’m told she was bold and crude
Tough living made her black skin impenetrable

Men came and went
Her bold spirit remained
A stained cloth she sometimes used to wipe the soot off her weary brow
Resilience isn’t a thing
We talk about
It’s a place we occupy
Whether we choose to or not

I may not know her name
To know she was bold and crude
Is enough for now

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