Willow and Silk

She is the embodiment of resilience and grace.

Her hair, longer than I am tall, falling over the back of her chair,

Is grey and black silk.

But mostly grey.

Her wrinkled hands are knotted with arthritis

And those familar tools she has used her whole life have to be relearned.

The shape of her fingers has changed, but she adapts as she uses them

To weave willow and maidenhair fern and spruce root

Into beautiful baskets.

Her fingers are stained with plant sediment, and their bones ache,

The price she pays for a lifetime of weaving

A place for babies to sleep

And caps to shelter their mothers’ heads from the sun.

I used to play in the dirt at her feet,

Making tiny villages out of pebbles and grape vines.

I can still hear her

Swishing her fingers in the water

In the old metal washtub where her willow soaked

And the araráhih that she shared with Auntie.

Their voices are Ti Creek

Rushing over pebbles.

She spoke from one side of her mouth only.

The other side was occupied with sticks.

I always wondered if those bitter branches brought relief

To the pain in her fingers.

Did she ever run those beautiful, gnarled fingers through her hair?

Just because she could,

Or maybe out of a sense of well-deserved vanity?

Every time a warm summer breeze kicked up,

While she sat there in her chair,

Did it condition her silken tresses

With the minty scent of pepperwood

And the earthy aroma of willow?

I bet it did.