Lineage
My father’s father painted houses seafoam green,
colonial white, mule-bone brown.
Sea Island bred, a saltwater Geechee.
Black as they come kind of man.
His pretty eyes passed to all his children and
to generations who will never know him.
Who knows where the line begins?
The Gambia? Sierra Leone? Nigeria?
My cousin has seen five generations
pass through the Congress Street house.
My father’s father born in the 1890s,
among the first generation free of the fields.
Barely had an education, made sure
all his children went to Avery Institute;
were counted among the best of the new.
My father’s father was not considered a fighter.
Nothing like his son, hotheaded, known
for throwing his bosses overboard any ship.
My father’s father was a
soft-spoken, non-reactionary man.
Lived among the folk. Survived, made do.
My father’s father long gone before I was born.
Married to a brown, fire-brand woman.
His sons were rolling stones, husbands, and fathers.
His only daughter culled knowledge into
minds and hearts of students, leaving a legacy
strong enough to outlast her life.
Through a mirrored prism I find your face
peering from the bottom of a river
amidst swirling golden light.
Hard to tell if it is sunset or dawn where you are?
Eugene, you are not forgotten, your photo is
dusted pristine on the family mantelpiece.
