39
Alberta
by Joy Overbrook
The sharp needle slips through and with it
an emerald bead joins the collection.
Each little orb is a world complete
added to a stretch of silky thread, heavy with blessings.
She cradles her keepsake like the round faces she’ll take in her hands —
“A kiss for each of you,”
she says as she presses her tender, thin lips to them.
Each sphere catches sunbeams through the window like fireflies,
a dancing string of Christmas lights.
Nine she counts, and nine she has, a heavenly bounty, the fruit of her own fruit.
Clammy hands pat a tattered apron, too slick to secure the treasure around her neck.
Weathered and strong are her toiling fingers — each knuckle, a clove of garlic.
She is a shadow box
Of memories, of recipes, and of faith.
Those who carry the name she took are molded by her example.