her old bones
Day after day, year after year, I ride past an old grandmother. She is greying and stooped, her old bones are weathered and tired – yet she is sill beautiful, even sacred. At least to me.
For many years she stood … tall and proud, solid and steadfast, quiet and imposing, yet welcoming and kind. She was a dependable storehouse, a nursery, a warm and fragrant embrace for man and animal. She is a landmark, a sentinel, a piece of the landscape as much as any creek or any mountain. She has seen many years, and she is filled with her own stories.
I have known her for only a small portion of her life. I have tried to listen for her stories. I have touched her bones. I have felt her embrace.
When the tornadoes of April 2011 set upon her quiet valley, it was more than she could bear in her old age; she submitted and bowed down. I confess that I cried when I first saw her afterwards.
Yet still, even in collapse, she sits; her skeletal remains are always a comfort to me when I ride near. I stop. I see her, decaying in her bones and stories, settling gently down in the quilt of her soft field. Slowly, slowly, she sinks into the land, taking her stories with her.
She is an old grandmother. She is most beloved.