Grand Ma's ArmsA Poem by Charles D. MoorerA memory of my Grand Mother
Grand Ma’s Arms
By Charles D. Moorer
Fingers beautifully curved like long brown bird feathers
attached to outstretched arms that cupped and pulled me
to her massive bosom.
Grand Ma’s arms were a sanctuary I would know but once.
I remember her telling my Aunt Belle, her daughter, to “stop whining.”
Fast Belle had lost her husband to another woman. “And stop that
crying, these children don’t need to hear that noise.”
I was fascinated by this wrinkled, old woman whose head was covered
by brown hair with streaks of white invading around the edges and down the middle
My father obediently called her Momma, like the little boy he became in her presence.
She brought with her fresh vegetables, cured meat, and rock candy for us kids.
I think she came by bus, maybe it was by car?
She cuddled each of kids, but somehow spent more time holding on to me, if she were to let go, something bad would happen to her or me, I don’t know which.
By next day she was gone back to that mysterious place called down south.
Three moths later, deep into winter, she was dead of a heart attack.
I didn’t know what that was. I did not know what death was.
I just know I found sanctuary once in Grand Ma’s arms.
© 2009 Charles D. MoorerAuthor's Note
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Added on July 10, 2009Last Updated on July 20, 2009 AuthorCharles D. MoorerPalm Coast, FLAboutI am an avid reader of African American literature and African American literary criticism and theory. I write short storeis, essays, and poetry. I believe all writers and poets, literary and spoken .. more..Writing
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