Ancestral: 11.19.14

Posted by: Stasa

bottles 1

Summer stretched endlessly at the cabin. While my mother wrote in the mornings I would wander out to acres of wood that surrounded us. There was one small meadow that never regrew trees. There had been a house there in the 1900s, mill workers. In one corner of the field was their dump. For years I reveled in digging through their garbage to find treasures. Too many of my mother’s stories of archeological digs in New Mexico infecting my mind.

spools

When I visit home there is a need to touch things. I pull out my grandmother’s sewing kit and let my fingers move over the old spools, bits of cracked soap, and crumbling pin cushions.

Advertisements
This entry was posted by Stasa.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: