Oma (a poem I wrote ten minutes ago about my grandmother)

For my last GE class (ever!!!), I decided to take poetry. Which has been challenging and allowed me to express myself in ways that STEM doesn't.

For our fifth poem, we had to pick a form and write a poem following that form (focusing on style vs content). I chose a Sestina, which is derived from the French. It is an unrhymed poem comprised of six stanzas, each with six lines, and a three lined envoi at the end. The pattern of the last word in each line throughout the poem is as follows:

1 2 3 4 5 6 / 6 1 5 2 4 3 / 3 6 4 1 2 5 / 5 3 2 6 1 4 / 4 5 1 3 6 2 / 2 4 6 5 3 1

The envoi will contain all six words, one in the middle of the line and the other at the end. The pattern for the envoi is:

6 2 / 1 4 / 5 3

I realized that this poem was due soon, and began to free write to see what would come to mind. Today it was my Oma. So, I free wrote for a couple minutes, then dove in and wrote the first stanza of the poem. Before continuing the rest of it, I noted the pattern of the end words, and then just let my brain do what it does best. This is a first draft, but I think it's one of my best.

Here is my poem (that made my mom and I cry simultaneously), I hope you enjoy.

Oma

Sitting at the kitchen table, I look at my Oma

an astounding woman, merely 5 feet tall, she

smiles at me and reaches out her hand

“My little girl, how happy I am now that you’re here.”

Her speaking is labored, but it’s improved quite well.

She used to run around all day, now she can’t walk without someone’s help.

When I was a little girl, all I wanted to do was help

her bake. She used to bake upwards of four cakes a week (no joke!). My Oma

would spoil us at Christmas, baking hundreds of “Weihnachts Guetsel,” as we called them. Well

she would “hide” them – a new location every year – and she

didn’t know that we made a game of who could sneak off and eat the most before Christma day. Here

in this house that she helped build in 1962, she always let me lend her a hand.

The best way to tell someone’s age is to look at his or her hands.

My Oma’s hands are dainty and dexterous. In the Fall, she would pick grapes to help

my Opa with his harvest. We all did, but she also provided lunch to eat, here

in the vineyards that my family has owned for decades. My Oma

spent her days tending to her garden, knitting, cooking, and taking care of her family. She

told me that her family’s love keeps her young. That’s her secret to aging well.

One memory of my Oma that I remember very well

occurred at the Summer Market. She was holding a golden beer in her hand.

Enjoying the summer evening heat, we lost track of time, and she

had an entire Stein of beer left when it was time to go. Without anyone’s help

(and to everyone’s surprise) my Oma

finished her drink, in one monstrous sip. Truly a sight to see. I guess you had to be (t)here.

My Oma is a devout Catholic woman. Spending many nights here,

in this church that’s older than our Founding Fathers. Her hair done up, and dressed well

she would sing the hymns with pride, as she had done for forty years. My Oma

would sit at my bed every night, and pray “The Lord’s Prayer,” making sure my hands

were clasped, my eyes shut, and my mouth reciting. Then she would help

me read my Children’s Bible and Prayer Book. She

was taken for granted by my family, and it was not until she

suffered those five strokes on the night of May 1, 2016, my cousin’s birthday, that we realized how different life would be                   without her here.

She no longer cooks, writes, knits, or tends to her garden, and she needs help

when she goes on her afternoon walk to visit the Virgin Mary. She doesn’t speak well

anymore. She stutters and her frustration makes it worse. But if you take her hand

and tell her that it’s okay, she’ll smile and try again. That’s my Oma.

When I go to visit, it’s my job to help her. They say when I’m there she

lights up and transforms into her old self again. My Oma speaks with ease, laughs, and even touches her toes! Here

in this presence, where we feel alive and well. We sit, speak, sing, and I reach out to hold her hand.