My Mother, the Shell Necklace Maker
I have an image of my mother
a memory of many years
sitting on a beach,
whose location often varied in time and place
head bent, body stooped
hands gently sweeping the sands
for the tiny, perfect shells
that she would collect
into glass jam jars
their fullness taking weeks or many months,
or of searching through
the wet, pungent smelling sea weed
seeking out even tinier shells
that formed the basis of her many strings
along with the cultural jewels
maireeners, green and blue
strung into strands
across the years
continuing a tradition
of ancestors past,
my mother
a Tasmanian Aboriginal woman
of Cape Barren Island,
gone, now,
but never forgotten,
her strings remain,
a cultural reminder
of her artistry.