My
sister and I became obsessed with roots –
a
time before pantyhose and wrinkle-free suits,
when
families could own their own stores,
and
feel themselves owners while sweeping the floors.
Success
could be gotten by working long hours
in
jobs that rode seasons like perennial flowers;
first
the winter night for planning, then riotous spring
to
summer’s daily green and autumn’s dry seeding.
Sleep
followed by day, a cycle that will repeat.
But
when in Vermont, my sister and I, our eyes meet,
saying
what we cannot say. We can’t read the
names
on
our ancestors’ tombstones, from time or acid rain
we
cannot tell. Technology less blight
than attitude;
we
usurp ourselves, we, who should
rip
ourselves from the ground to fly.
But,
ironically, dreams are why we die.
Today
I photograph the blank, marble screens
where
my sister and I see ourselves reflected, between
illegible
tableaux of a family lashed together
for
reasons long forgotten, and the unpredictable weather
of
our lives, where we dash rootless and wet, my sister and I,
looking
for affirmation in times gone by.