Petite  Southern Bell,

Who could Stop you?

What could Stop you?

Rheumatic fever…

Breast  Cancer…

had  nothing  on  you.

Instead  of  pushing  daisies…

for  years  you  picked them,

garnished  your  table

with  a floral  center  piece.

Instead  of  a  tomb,

your womb carried life.

The  Doctors  did not  think,

for  long,

you’d  even  be  a  wife.

New  York  staircases…

Alcoholic  laden  hallways…

You  overcame  the  toughest,

and  roughest,

still giving  God  time,


Your  story  is  told,

about  how  you  were  bold,

but  we  spend  little  time

with  your  tears.

They  nourished  dry  soil,

quenched thirsty souls,

carried  the  family  for  years.

You  stayed  humble

Prayed  humble

you  were  meek,

but  your  modesty

was  loud.

You  wore  your  wisdom

like  a  ball  gown,

integrity  like  pearls,

your  faith,

you  never  lied  down.

I  watched  you  as  a  little  girl,



and  grey.

You  prepared  me  for  the  moment,

All  of  your  stories,

I’d  convey.

20150508_085120 Ila Mae~Grandmother (Far Rockaway, New York City)











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