Poem 7 (PD 24)

Campfire

Just think--

when Mother was my age,

she could build a fire

with sparks from rocks,

catch a bunch of 

grasshoppers and roast them whole

for a summer night's snack!

"Get me a good stick,"

she says, "thin but strong," 

and I bring her one

from the woods

behind our tent.

On the way back 

I see a brown bag

by her feet--

could it be?

When the fire is spitting ready,

she reaches

in the bag, rustling,

and hands me

one big, fat, luscious

marshmellow.

From: A Suitcase of Seaweed and Other Poems, by Janet S. Wong, Margaret McElderry Books, 1996

A gift from Bill Raffloer and Suzanne Prenderville

I choose this poem to honor the heritage of my grandson, Asher Junsoo Lee Doolittle; a bright-eyed, sparkling child who was born on April 2, 2018 in South Korea.  I was supposed to be there, in Daegu, South Korea, to help celebrate his second birthday.  My plane was scheduled to leave on March 6.  Unsurprisingly that didn't happen, for as of today over a million cases of Co-vid 19 have been confirmed around the world.  The last picture I received of him showed him in a face mask.  The world he will grow up in is very different than the world I grew up in.  I don't know when it will safe enough to travel again to see him.  

The poet, Janet Wong, like my grandson, has a Korean mother who married an American soldier.  Unlike Asher, she was born in the US and didn't have a deep connection to the country of her mother, but as an adult she came to crave Korean beef bone soup and kimchi.  Our connections are deep and many to our family and our heritage and show up in many unexpected ways.  

Because we cut down 14 trees on our 4 acre property last winter, our yard will require much spring clean-up.  We've recently collected and burned twigs, sticks and other brush and toasted weiners for dinner over the coals.  This poem pulls together many facets of my life at the moment.  Poetry has a way of doing that.