Rhianna 's Song Poem by Edith Niemeyer

When you were six,
words were waiting
for you to find them.

We practiced together—
little words made simple
for a little girl
whose imagination
was anything but.

You would giggle,
as though somewhere
behind those bright eyes
you had wandered into
a world all your own.

I could only imagine
what you found there.

Then came the spelling bee.

Regional champion—
my little speller,
standing tall among the words.

And somewhere among them
came one that would follow us home:

Old Hag.

You meant no vicious thing by it—
you even told me so
some time later.

But from that day forward,
I became
Old Hag,

and you—

my Littlest Haglet.

But words had been ours
even before then.

At three,
you hadn't quite mastered
elevator.

To you,
it was an

ellagator.

And on your very first ride,
we all stepped inside
without a thought.

The doors closed.

The ellagator began to rise—

and down to the floor
you went!

Only then did it dawn on us:

You had never ridden one before.

How could we have been
so clueless?

Yet somehow,
even that became
one more little memory
I would tuck away
for later.

And then there was a day
when laughter had no business
finding me—

but you brought it anyway.

Great-Grandpa Bud had died.

We sat in the front row,
my heart broken,
listening to the preacher.

Again and again
he would say,

Amen.

And every single time,
my little Rhianna
would pipe up:

A……MEN¡! ! ! !

I was supposed to be grieving.

And I was.

But, oh, how you amused me.

Somehow your little voice
found its way
through my broken heart
and gave sorrow
a moment to smile.

Perhaps you could not have known
what that word meant to me.

For the last word
my Daddy ever spoke
was also—

Amen.

And so the years went on.

Six became seven,
seven wandered onward,
and childhood quietly slipped
through doors
I never noticed closing.

The Littlest Haglet
grew up.

You are twenty-three now.

But somewhere in my remembrances
there is still a little girl
giggling over spelling words,

an ellagator rising
beneath her feet,

an Old Hag
with her Littlest Haglet,

and a tiny voice
from the front row
calling into grief—

A……MEN¡! ! ! !

Some memories fade.

Some memories grow quiet.

And some—

some remain little echoes
that time cannot age.

Perhaps that is what
grandmothers are given:

small pieces of childhood
to carry forward
when the child
has long since grown.

And carry them I shall—

with a giggle,
a tear,

and an

Amen.