Nana d’Entremont 1889 – 1987
She came from Comeau’s Hill–near Argyle Sound,
a Nova Scotian charming, rural place–
and towered over me. Her caring bulk
was always on the move. She cooked the best–
her sugar cookies light and touched with crisp,
and topped with extra sugar, always pleased.
She sewed most anything, like apron vests,
and hemmed our pants, and mended seams and rips.
A button lost? She had a jar so full,
from gemstone accents to the largest ones
for burly winter coats–keep out the cold.
She never talked too much, but said, Ae-ya,
a lot, agreeing or to pacify.
From April through the fall her TV showed
a baseball game–no sound–narration from
the radio turned up for every call.
At ninety-five she still had her own place,
until the shingles took her to a home,
where she lay silent, stoic with the pain,
no burden ever put on us, except
when she was gone. No plate of cookies sweet,
all rips and hems were always left unfixed,
no busy work around the baseball games.
But she did leave behind her button jar
that always stays as is–the wooden ones
I never saw her use, the colorful
in painted shapes she used for apron vests–
the memories packed in a jar, a kind
of shrine to Nana bringing all her best
from Nova Scotia to our hearts, to last.