I found Grammy’s diary, lost in the gloom, underneath the stairs in a box filled with wood. A little yellowed notebook from 1952, the lines so close together, weaving stories of a world to be understood. The words at first, they floated, like orbs in the gloom, sparking conversation with a spirit from a distant womb.
She writes these days the clouds they shadow me, I’ve felt them from up near Otis, as dad drove us over to these apple trees. And here near Grand Junction, as the sun falls from the sky, I’ve felt the touch of a strange spirit telling me he’s by my side. I’ve not mentioned it to Dad now, for he would just say that’s unnatural and silly, and most of all why. Besides you know mother, we have apples to pick for free. He’d also mention camp meeting, where the gospel moves so sweet, now they would not understand the familiar that’s here with me. Softly singing “Bringing in the Sheaves”. These days.
These words I read in tandem, with the whispers beside my head, I wonder if my familiar is the one that Grammy had. The words in her simple handwriting like that up on the wall, predicts so many stories in my own life, perhaps tales within us all. Babylon, oh Babylon, the daemon smiles. Grammy writes these days, the strange spirit it sits right by my side, he’s taken shape as a young Keetoowah cousin, one I knew before he died. And all around this orchard he brings the future in like it’s a tide. He tells me Eisenhower will be president one month from now, he does not lie. It worries me something terrible to know all these things inside, to see the path of so many loved ones, it’s why in this diary I must write. These days.
I read on my fingers shaking, I see a shadow near the wall, I ask him if he’s seen Grammy, he just nods but does not talk. So, I continue reading, she writes so many things. These days, she says I’ve seen an aspen leave, it moves and it has wings. If I touch it, it turns to honey, if I listen it often sings. The strange spirit standing beyond me, says someday, it will speak my name, from these days. Babylon, oh Babylon, the daemon smiles.
I close quickly Grammy’s diary, for I know what I have seen, the written word about me, from something she did see. I look unto my own shadows, the cycles that are me. I touch the face of G_D inside, the familiar balance of all that’s tried. Every picture from every time means something. These days.
(To be continued) – 3.24.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל