KNOXVILLE: SUMMER
OF 1915
25
On the rough wet grass of the back yard my father and mother have
spread quilts. We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt,
and I too am lying there. First we were sitting up, then one of us lay down,
and then we all lay down, on our stomachs, or on our sides, or on our
backs, and they have kept on talking. They are not talking much, and the
talk is quiet, of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of
nothing at all. The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like
a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near. All my people
are larger bodies than mine, quiet, with voices gentle and meaningless
like the voices of sleeping birds. One is an artist, he is living at home.
One is a musician, she is living at home. One is my mother who is
good to me. One is my father who is good to me. By some chance,
here they are, all on this earth; and who shall ever tell the sorrow of being
on this earth, lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the
sounds of the night. May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt, my
mother, my good father,. oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble;
and in the hour of their taking away.
After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws
me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar
and well-beloved in that home : but will not, oh, will not, not now, not
ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.
