Nano struggled, as
the Great Depression
came and went,
mostly alone. For
a time, she placed
her children in a
Catholic orphanage.
Roosevelt's WPA
gave her work
as a seamstress.
She wrote poems,
published in the
local newspaper.
Nano, Part X.
Nano lost a son,
her youngest,
and went gray
overnight.
Still she wrote
poems.
A son and three
daughters married.
But when it came
to men,
her thoughts
were her own.
Nano, Part XI.
This was something new.
As my mother poured
water from the stove
into the tub, my
grandmother stood naked
in the kitchen.
"Why don't you find
a man? You're still
in your fifties,"
my mother said.
Even I, at four
years old, could
see that she
had been,
was still,
beautiful.
Nano, Part XII.
"What's this I found
on your dresser,"
my mother asked
my grandmother.
"These are not your
glasses."
"No," my grandmother
answered, "they are
Mr. Foltz's glasses."
"But, Mother, he's been
gone for twenty years!"
"I know," my
grandmother said,
"but I always thought
he might come back
and need them."
When it came to men,
Nano's thoughts
were her own.
Nano, Part XIV.
No, there is no
Part thirteen,
which to Nano
would have meant
bad luck, along
with black cats,
crows at the
window, and
certain tea leaves.
She left us
at a ripe age,
still loving
and reciting
poetry.
Unfortunately, Nano
never again
saw Ireland.
I hope she sees it now.
Atlántida, Uruguay, May 12 2016
Photo: Susan Traxler Martin
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