by their fruits

I.
She almost died on an Easter Sunday.
My great-gramma.

Heavy waiting filled the air
At her daughter's house,
My gramma's house.

We unconsciously half-celebrated;
Grampa still hid the eggs
We'd colored with crayons and dye.
We still searched the yard for them,
But the knowledge of Gramma Roth's shape
Weighed the backs of our minds
And the bottoms of our hearts.


II.
She died a week into May.

Gone.


III.
She used to be the top of my living family tree.

She,
my gramma,
my dad,
me.

A tree.


IV.
She raised three boys and three girls.

Her little house must have felt
So empty all those years
With them grown-up and gone.

Then we'd come tumbling in for a visit.
Building lincoln log cabins,
Sleeping on the trundle bed,
Squashing box elder bugs,
Weeding her flower bed.
Her old home managed to hold us all--
Back to its old self.

V.
Great-gramma had a fruit cellar.

I loved swinging open the creaky door
And stepping down into the cool dark.
I would stand, eyes closed, for one breath,
Inhaling the deep air of packed dirt,
Before pulling the naked light bulb's string.

Every shelf contained similar glass bottles
All housing different preserves:
Floating peaches,
Beans snapped and suspended,
Colorful jellies and jams,
Dark grape juice,
Beautiful raspberries,
And rich tomatoes.

VI.
Gone.

She still is.

I walk now into my parent's basement pantry
And witness the dead are still with us
As we fill jars with applesauce, sauerkraut, pears, apricots.

A family's tree.