I said my grandmother’s name,

In a field of phlox, purples and pinks and reds,

with my hair, as white as hers, flying in the March wind;

her favorite season.

I said my grandmother’s name,

who’s immigrant grandmother brought it as a part of her own

in 1854 on a one-way ship from Germany, never to return.

I said my grandmother’s name, whose mother gave it to her,

a mother she never knew

Who was raised by all of her sisters before her.

I said my grandmother’s name, who came to Florida, alone on a train at 17.

I said my grandmother’s name, widowed at 39,

who babysat and took in laundry for the people who were once her peers, to raise a fine son.

I said my grandmother’s name, who never owned a home until her brother left her his when she was 68 years old.

I said my grandmother’s name, a strong woman, with a fierce but private memory.  A woman who ironed with a cigarette hanging from her lip.

I said my grandmother’s name, who outlived all 12 of her siblings in her 107 years.

I said my grandmother’s name, who loved me and my daughters with all of her heart.

I said my grandmother’s name when I smelled my lemon tree blossoms.

I said my grandmother’s name, she her mother’s youngest, who my youngest gave a part of to her youngest so the universe knows she is remembered.

I say my grandmother’s name:

Mattie Sophia, Mattie Sophia, Mattie Sophia.