Penelope

My grandmother spent time between daily tasks sitting in her rocker on the front porch working on a crochet project.  The fun in writing this piece was to grab a moment from the movement of life, in this case, a woman like my my grandmother waiting for her husband and son to come home to supper.  I like such moments more than longer narratives because they evoke their own stories.  This one  evokes the story of Odysseus and a focus on Penelope as she waits for him to return to Ithaca. So, with a nod to Homer and to my grandmother…

Penelope

A woman rocks in a white chair on the front porch.
A sea-foam of crochet work spills from her lap.
Late afternoon sunlight glints from the metal crochet  hook.
A cat, eyes half shut, sits on the porch railing.
A bird dog sleeps on the front steps.
The sweet smell of gardenia huddles inside closed buds.
The woman pauses, sighs, looks toward the dirt road.
Dust rises in the pine trees.
Time to get supper on the table for her husband and son.
At least it’s not Sunday,
the day she must cook a big dinner
just in case anybody comes by after church.
The pickup truck turns into the driveway.
The woman stands and her crochet  hook clatters on the porch.
The cat springs from the railing.
The old bird dog stands up, whimpers,
stretches, and lifts his ears.
The woman bends over to pick up the crochet hook,
unraveling her bedspread.

Penelope unravels her weaving on purpose.
Her work maintains the odious revelry
of suitors who do not love her.
Watching for dust on the distant hills,
she no longer sees their faces.
Irritable Odysseus returns to Ithaca.
An old dog recognizes the beggar and lifts his ears.
Telemachus, also a beggar, returns.
Then, arrows, so many arrows.
Death ends the revelry.

The woman on the porch sees a half-opened gardenia.
She picks it, lifts it to her nose,
then looks at her husband and son walking toward the house.