by Samantha Thornhill
Two overseas calls, four years apart,
robbed me of my two last grands.
On my first Halloween in the States,
Granny left for the ethers, less memories
of her now than fingers on a hand.
Inches shy of an expired visa, Dad
jettisoned himself back to the island
to see his mother slide into the cremator’s
oven, and returned with a mouth
full of ashes, not old talk.
Three years later, when Granddad
joined her in the unseen realm,
we had burrowed our roots in Florida
soil— outlaws in plain sight.
Evidently, no cathedral
in town could cup comfortably
the generations of minds
gilded by their teacherly touch.
On my first visit to Trinidad
twenty years later, a door sighed
closed in me when I beheld
their remembrances
at the crematorium in Maraval—
Sam and Enid’s plaques
cleaner than those around them.
– for Samuel and Enid Thornhill
Poem copyright 2024 by Samantha Thornhill. All rights reserved.
See two more poems from Samantha Thornhill debuted on The Fight & The Fiddle: “How to Use African Black Soap,” and “Four Sonnets”
Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt