Friday, June 4, 2010

my grandmother's name was Iris

He says this fingering the locket that I now wear that once belonged to Iris:

She was a small woman. Came to here. Tiny, but she got wide in the end. She'd understand this. She had great understanding. Understanding and patience.

It was always grandma's house for special occasions. There would be great plates of food. Her daughters, Margarite and Cecil, would always help in the kitchen. And for supper, she would always sit at the head of the table - where she belonged. She wasn't a religious woman but we would all hold hands. We would say grace. Grace for the family. Family was important to her.

She would tell us, don't lose mind on the silly stuff. Remember what's important. Remember who loves you.

My grandmother's name was Iris.

collaboration by erin and robert


  1. I would like to have met Iris. I would help her in the kitchen. I would listen to her. I would ask many questions and my face would hurt with smiling. Invariably she would hit me with her tea towel and shoo me away.


  2. erin- it was a long day yesterday. even waiting for the train that passes through our little town to cross the road seemed forever. and as car after car clacked in front of me i thought how lucky i am to be here.

    to come home late and see you sleepy on the couch waiting gave me such a sense of love, and then to curl up with you for the rest of the night.

    this morning when i came down and saw that you had posted this for me and wrote the little story i told you while we sat on the porch brought a little tear. for this what we do isn't. we tell stories to each other.

    iris would have loved you very much erin. if she could see how happy you have made me she would never shoo you out of the kitchen.


  3. Robert -

    The stories we tell. And the stories we spill.

    The stories we carry. Of grandmother in the kitchen. Plates of food. Saying Grace. Tea towels being used as extensions of loving hands.

    The stories of now. Traffic being too slow for a lover’s patience.

    And the stories we spill. Through words and photos. Not the author’s own words. Rather his mind leaking onto the page.

    To this distant viewer this is not so much about grandmother Iris. To this distant viewer there is the meeting of two lovers. The photo of two bodies. An intimate embrace.

    Then the words. Whispered in the night. The stories. The stories......


  4. Grete- You are not so distant.
    For your comments throughout this blog I am grateful.

    Thank you.