With her sister’s son.
Her sister was deaf, dumb,
And didn’t want pregnancy.
But poor thing didn’t have a choice,
So barren sister Grace took in the boy.
She raised him with joy, with love, with honor.
But he lived in the vein of his father,
Took the mantle of rapist himself,
Then was carted off to prison.
“You spoilt him,” cried folks at church.
“It’s your fault,” they accused.
She couldn’t fight back.
She made some pink
This poem was written for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday #153, Grace and Style (synonyms in bold). When I saw the word “grace,” I instantly thought of that inimitable character I’ve spoken of so many times on this blog – Mama Grace – and how she seemed the absolute definition of grace to me growing up. I learned about her deep struggles after she died, but I remember sipping pink lemonade with her in a neat-as-a-pin house after her husband died.
I don’t know what happened to the sister.