One of the losses we feel deeply
Her story has never been written.

Women are nodding and saying
“Me too!”

We tell the story of traditional strength
When responding to oppression
As a community.

Nurturing everyone is the busy work
Of many women’s hands.

Gathering, feeding, and clothing,
Cleaning up after the whole community.

Making a home in a tent
When displaced as refugees,

The everyday work
Keeps women grouping and caring for others.

So often, a grandmother has both hands full
With scarce time to sit in solitude,
Take up a pen
To write down the wisdom
From her years of living.

She knows much of it was only heard
By her ears,
If it’s not noted
Who will remember?

We’re always sure Grandma will be
Happy to listen,
And let us know what she thinks when we ask.

But it’s sad because her story,
It’s never written.

When her eyes close for the final time
Her hands won’t reach out
To take up the task…

The wisdom she might have shared
So freely when asked
Will be quiet
And never read,

A memory kept as a fragment
Instead of a family reading
Her story.