I seek out the older women
solicit the names of their children.
They smile, recite.
I write, record,
read back to them.
Three mothers that day
locked my gaze. Each hesitated
“And then there’s the baby
that died. Do you want that one, too?”
I want them all.
Their mouths relax, old grief grown
tearless, a familiar groove.
Memory lifts the name and date
as if rubbing from stone,
letters and numbers sharp-edged.
We carve markers
into the cambium
of our family tree.
Baby Andrew, September 20, 1902.
Little Julia, two months, June 3, 1900.
Baby Richardson, May 6, 1896.
“No, no name. Just put Baby. A girl.”
