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La PrimaEditor's Note: Christine Stoddard and Christine Skelly (yeah, that's Christine squared) are working on an illustrated poetry collection called Ladies of Lore. You might've read some of the poems here on QuailBellMagazine.com since many of them were featured in Photo Tales, but others are brand new! Here's the poem Christine Skelly's most recently illustrated. And we'll be posting info on the forthcoming book soon(ish). Autumnal longings inspire nostalgia. Perish, Summer. The new season must ascend to the throne. Pass your crown to shorter days and owl-filled nights. Let leaves burn, wither, and fall. Let thoughts of death pervade one and all. Like Spring, Summer urges growth. It looks to life, to the future. The dead are forgotten-- like the dark side of a knife. That makes Summer a cruel month indeed, especially for the deceased. Remember even what no longer gleams. Honor the dead, as the Mexicans say. Bring them flowers, invite them to play. It is not morbid to dwell at a funeral. Morbidness implies sickness. But she who admires the trees and wonders about past loves and the true fate of the dead is not sick. She is imaginative. Her mind flutters like scores of bees. Hush, stars. Hush, raccoons and eerie birds. Hush, every creature of the evening. For I have a tale not even the constellations have heard. Like the best of tales, it begins with 'Once upon a time...' Nicolette and Gabrielle lived in a land of gloomy brick houses, cobblestoned streets, and dry bread. They were two arresting young ladies. Despite their dismal environment, they were not morbid. They were not sick. They simply dreamt of the past. One fixture of the past particularly bewitched them. Before they had laced their very first corsets, they shared a cousin named Camille. Camille, who choked on the hard bread. Camille, who could not drink the gray water. Camille, as strong as a feather and no stronger. One afternoon, she fell. A whimper and an impenetrable silence later, the cousins had lost their Camille. The weeks opened and closed, like curtains over a stage. And with each day, Gabrielle and Nicolette publicly mourned their Camille. Not a meal went by without one mention of her. Until, that is, when Camille's mother cursed them. A flick of her tongue, a flick of her hand, and neither girl spoke of Camille again. So, with summer, Nicolette and Gabrielle babbled about pure sunrises and sunsets, not speaking of how Camille had wished to wrap her arms around the sun. After months at sea, Camille's father returned to the land of gloomy brick houses, cobblestoned streets, and dry bread. He wiped some salt off his sleeves and told Gabrielle and Nicolette ten-thousand stories. But only one story mattered to the girls. “I have seen a country,” he said, “where the women make sugar skulls to commemorate the dead. Families make merriment in the cemeteries with dance and song. They eat candies and special cakes, all for those long gone. No one is ashamed of death.” Clouds passed over the moon as Camille's father yarned one tale after another. The girls lingered. The girls swooned. In one breath, Nicolette and Gabrielle whispered the name of the holiday they had learned: “El día de los muertos.” The next morning, Nicolette boiled tea, while Gabrielle gathered Camille's favorite things: a fan, a parasol, and a doll—her porcelain twin. It was time to anglicize a centuries-old tradition. Not a moment after opening the door, the girls ran to Camille's grave. Nursery rhymes, sweet humming, raspberry thin mints... They have been drinking tea at Camille's tomb ever since. Do you remember our Photo Tale for this poem? Check it out here! CommentsComments are closed.
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