By: Arvilla Fee

Dear Relatives

Just look at all of you, now that Gran is gone,
hands pawing through fragile wedding quilts.
It’s too late to fall in love with rosebud china now;
you were all too busy to drink her ginger tea.

Hands pawing through fragile wedding quilts
not one of you deserves a block or scrap.
You were all too busy to drink her ginger tea,
her golden stories blurred as you rushed past.

Not one of you deserves a block or scrap;
you weren’t around when Gran lost her curly hair.
Her golden stories blurred as you rushed past;
every finger itching to hold the family trust.

You weren’t around when Gran lost her curly hair;
it’s too late to fall in love with rosebud china now.
Every finger itching to hold the family trust;
look at all of you, now that Gran is gone.

The Immature Artist

I dab a bit of paint from my pallet,
making asters pop from the canvas.
I’m not an artist, not really—but I love
the mess, love having paint on my fingers,
love the clever names of all the acrylics:
titanium white, raw umber, graphite gray,
Mars orange, salmon, burgundy, cobalt blue.
But my favorite part is mixing colors,
creating something entirely new—a little
of this, a little of that then suddenly sand
takes on a whole new shade of peachy brown,
something not quite turquois, not quite marine
begins frothing in an ocean, seagulls screech
overhead, their feathers streaked with burnished
sun-kissed hues. I giggle like a child, flicking my brush
this way and that then add just a speck of Phthalo green
to the end of my nose.

Scrapbooking

As an avid scrapbooker for my own three kids,
I once asked my mother why she didn’t keep
any scrapbooks documenting my life and my
brother, Charlie’s life as children. She folded her
her hands, skin paper-thin, across her lap and
closed her eyes. Thinking she’d fallen asleep,
I started to ask the question again, but she said,
Because, Cecelia, I was picking beans, hoeing corn,
canning stewed tomatoes—because I was changing
cloth diapers, preparing three meals a day, mending
clothes so none of you would run around with holes
in your pants. But I did keep scrapbooks, in my own way.
She rose from her rocker and motioned for me to follow
her to her bedroom. Pulling items from her closet,
one-by-one, she began placing them on the bed.
Your first pair of shoes, Charlie’s first pair of shoes,
your dedication outfits, your handprints in plaster—
I stared down as she piled more and more things: my
first art project, a macaroni necklace from first grade.
Charlie’s lopsided ceramic bowl he’d made in fifth,
cut-out gingerbread men, Christmas bulbs, and other
trinkets, dozens of handprinted letters and cards in our
childish handwriting. Oh, Mom, I breathed. I had no idea.
But, of course, she said with a wink. We didn’t have all
that fancy paper, but we knew how to keep memories.

The One Shot

I crouch on the ground,
my camera at an impossible angle
as I turn myself into a contortionist.
But there it is—a ray of sun hitting
square across the thin shoulders
of my dark-haired daughter,
making each strand gleam
like raven feathers in the light.
I know I only have a few seconds.
Four-year-olds are rarely still,
but for now, she is captivated
by the field of poppies, and I press
the shutter. Click, click, click.
From this position, my daughter
is tall, a Madonna with red buttons
framing her tan legs, her toes curled
in a soft sea of wavy bluestem grass.

The Fall Eclipse

golden leaves have scattered
beneath North wind’s frosty breath
now curled and leached of color
they huddle close in death

my sweater gathered ‘round me
a fire burns in the grate
and though it be but 5 p.m.
early darkness marks it late

if only I had wings to fly
in a lovely feathered V
I’d ditch the cold that’s yet to come
and spend my winters by the sea

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Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her five children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 100 magazines. Her three poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks.