I read the letter again today,

The letter telling me to

Pray,

Morning, noon, and especially, at night.

The olde style cursive writing

Scrawled 

Upon a yellowed gold-embossed stationery, 

The blue ink now a steely gray,

A shaky hand has written to me:

“Thou must pray.”

“And furthermore,” she went on to say,

“We are obligated to practice kindness, humility, and correctness 

With those we love,

And whomever we relate to in the greater circle 

Of our family and our friends.

When we depart from these, we lose the aid

Of our higher power

And risk a great misfortune.” 

I read the letter every day. 

It takes great self-discipline,

Because it hurts my eyes to read

The lines I see so in between,

And my heart can hardly stand

To know the fate of the shaky hand who penned it.

And yet through bleary eyes I see,

This letter has come to me from the past

And travels ahead to the future,

No matter where I forward my address.

My mother’s mother’s mother’s words,

The visage of her, tall and slim,

And wispy as the Holy Ghost.

Austerity was her middle name

And wisdom her proclivity.

And she wanted me to hear

The way to get from a to b,

And b to c,

And c to d,

So that I might arrive unscathed,

Bathed in the light of peace and joy

And deep sagacity,

From night

To the deepest heart of day,

To come to reside again with my ancestors. 

-jenn