Heirloom Poem by Rasma Haidri

It is early morning when my daughter
stumbles down the hall making noises
that could be words, or birdsong,
or leftover memory of angel tongue.

She carries my scarf,
the rose colored one with blue cornflowers
she has slept with for three nights.

She finds me sitting in my room,
climbs up and asks - Can I keep this forever?
Until I die? And then I will give it to my child,
and when she is a grown-up
she will give it to her child, and the story
goes on... is that a good idea?

Yes, I say, that is a good idea,
and notice how the chair
can hardly hold us, already her head
reaches to my chin, as she whispers -
You will always be the grandmother of my child.


(first published in Essential Love, Grayson Books,2000)