Praise

To my grandmother who walked
in shoes with heels like
pedestals, Roman column
solid, brown as nutmeg
and cloves folded in
pumpkin batter; each
a clumping announcement
of her arrival; each laced
high through eyelets to stockings
you could see her legs through.

To her name, its ancient
stock. Gertrude. Wrapping
her baby daughter in it
as in an heirloom quilt.
They called her Fairy--
a name so evanescent
Sleepytime Town lifted
her away forever
on an April afternoon.

To my grandmother's years,
her annual steps, walking
on and holding on for all
of us with children we
think we cannot live without.

To my mother remembering
in Trudy. Gertrude. My
sister in sandals, the keeper
of grandmother's book: Fairy's
poems and school pictures
and favorite songs. Praise to
her, too, this keeper of a name,
polishing its sturdiness;
walking with grandmothers
and mothers as if on
pedestals; lacing a family
you can see her heart through.
-for Trudy