Nana

She was always there.
Not an imposing presence;
no blazing sun sailing overhead on
long beach walks.
Not an indifferent entity;
no silent moon night-lighting trees
in a coccoon around my tent.
Not that, but rather she was
the quiet comfort of all of nature,
constant, reassuring.
A reminder of what was good and true.
The waves swirling merrily around my toes,
the woven tapestry of cricket chirps and owl hoots.
Soothing.

She was always there.
A receptionate ear who encouraged me,
read my halting lines, wrapped herself in my stories.
A fiesty, compassionate woman, one in whose shoes
I would unquestioningly follow
if I was someday made of strong enough stuff.
I longed to be
a true-to-the-end friend like her;
a better rifle shot than her beau, like her;
an expressive poet and talented story-teller, like her;
a historian and valuer of those who came before, like her;
a modernist and embracer of the future, like her.

She was always there.
She brought the past to life, encouraged my research.
She listened with amusement to my 'greatest hits',
adding her comments to a tape spanning Bach to the GTs.
She wrote a poem for my compilation "The Waller Book",
a labour of love from me to her.
She encouraged my strange projects while others laughed;
praised the poetry on my family calendars.
She even liked the silliness of me sending
"Girls Day" origami to her -
beautiful, delicate, paper empresses.

It is almost inconceivable
that someday there might be a day
when she no longer will be there. 3.18.97

[by Lisa Shea, grand-daughter]
3.18.97