An afternoon like this reminds me of my grandma,
when she taught us how to bead
one summer. On a day like today, warm
she stretched carpet thread on a loom
ignoring the dishes, laundry, mending,
chores that could wait, those afternoons
the flowers grew beneath my grandma’s hands.
Rough knuckles she had, and long-boned fingers
that lifted beads carefully from a jar lid
with her needle, counting
two blue two red eight white two red four green
four white four green two blue six white two blue.
A steamy afternoon it was at the table
where she sat flanked and squeezed
by me and Cynthia moving closer and closer
as we watched, pressing against her sides
yet she never said move away it was too hot,
only that the warm breath from our open mouths
limbered her fingers, softened the beeswax
with which she coated the thread,
and gave her a good grip on the sticky loom.
One day she gave us little wooden looms
she’d made, and our own needles, fast and silvery
to try out beading, and we felt honored
to do what Grandma did; honored
we watched and did what she did.
Threaded our looms
picked up beads with our needles
pressed up and wove
into no patterns at all, just beads,
but you know? She praised us,
praised us anyway, said that looks good.
It’s been eighty years since I saw my grandma
but I remember when she taught us how to bead,
when flowers grew and bloomed beneath her hands
that summer just before my father died.
Mother in her sadness never sang
again, spending nights drinking days asleep
till the Indian agent noticed and sent me
to boarding school, where I was to forget
what Grandma taught me and learn other ways.
But, I remembered when she taught us how to bead,
that summer flowers grew beneath her hands
and when we brought our bracelets to town,
a long hot walk with Grandma to the store.
We sold our “just beads” bracelets for ten cents,
and Grandma got a dollar each for hers.
She said, you girls keep your money,
and bought blue yarn, brown sugar,
white cheesecloth, and three red suckers
for the long walk home, purchased
along with endless days, I would have thought,
of Mother singing as she sewed and cooked
of Father cutting pulp and hauling scrap
and Grandma, flanked and squeezed
between two small girls
who watched her work.
I never did forget
that summer when she taught us how to bead,
when flowers grew and bloomed beneath her hands
and held it in my heart those lonely days
at school. Marching to class learning English
scrubbing the floors I held it in my heart,
that summer when she taught us how to bead,
those brown fingers, that soft gray dress, the steam
from summer heat, and learning-breathing mouths
limbering her fingers and the threads,
that summer Grandma taught us how to bead.