Shawn Aveningo-Sanders
From Those Who Came Before
I am
Nanny’s
illegal gator ankle-straps
matching handbag
parading down Columbia Street
in the boot-heel of Missouri.
Popo’s
straw fedora, clip-on bow tie,
puffing on a pipe
filled with cherry tobacco,
smoke tickling the blackbirds.
I am
Chipped piano keys
on Grandma’s upright Wurlitzer,
middle-C clicking
like her Ball jar of gallstones.
The grandfather
I never met,
standing tall, stoic
his secrets kept safe behind
an ailing heart that quit too soon.
I am
Aunt Nadine’s
shoebox of poems tied with ribbon;
Aunt Helen’s
full bosom in a starched white blouse;
Uncle Denny’s
wanderlust, guilt for leaving.
Aunt Carol’s
doll hidden in a dresser drawer.
I am
Dad’s
sarcasm and smarts,
his spreadsheet balancing
indiscretions and sensibility.
Mom’s
smudged lipstick on her teeth
and the strength to carry on with a smile.