Ancestral Writing Presentation

Dezrene Elizabeth Wade

The Work of my Mother’s Hands

Truly you have formed my inmost being;

You knit me in my mother’s womb.

(Psalm 139: 13).

(An ode to my mother)

I sat and watched you work, crouched

tirelessly over the sewing machine,

one foot pedaling the ancient wheel

whirring sounds the lullaby that gently

soothed me to sleep, a book of fairy tales

(my faithful companion) still firmly clutched

in moistened palms, journeying with me onto

the landscape of distant dreams.

“I am making you a Sunday school frock,” you said

the next morning, stretching wide a continent of fabric

blue and white pique whose patterns danced

like butterflies taking flight into the warm sun

of my morning play.

This formless fabric you molded, cutting, measuring,

contouring the frock to fit my undefined seven -year-old shape.

From my distant corner I watched intrigued,

rising excitement pounding within my heaving breast.

I did not know then of the inward struggles,

the stalled dreams that propelled your foot

on that ancient wheel and lined your face

in the penciled crinkles of your soothing smile.

When the frock was almost done

you shaped a wide sailor collar

for its finishing touch.

A slender, straight sheath of material,

you fashioned the letters of my name onto

the special promise of that virgin garment.

With letters penciled across the wide expanse of fabric,

your pointed needle weaved the gossamer threads etching

the outline of my name in blue embroidery on white pique;

You fashioned me from the work of your hands.

Oh! With such prideful steps I marched

to Sunday school,

my name emblazoned across my chest.

I walked in the knowledge of being loved.

And as the years rolled along with the changing seasons

an eternal web spawned between mother and daughter.

And memory dimmed by the diurnal rituals of marriage,

childbirth, family and travels through a web of myths

and dreams my blue and white dress

became a soon forgotten relic,

till age has brought me this remembrance.

And as I journey through the summers of my memory

I recall how you created with cloth, needles, and thread

and today I create with pencil, paper, and memories.

I know now that your hopes and dreams are woven

into the seamless fabric of my life.

Your love, dreams, and experiences have swirled

and knitted us together,

into the embroidered tapestry of our life’s history.

(Bridges to Memory, 2007, p. 39)