A Poem for Aunt Ophelia (1951-2023)

And the clouds say her name.
And her family sings her name.
And her friends gather to uplift
her name, to   remember   her
smile, to shake hands, to tell
stories, to trace      yesterdays
with patient fingertips. They
laugh, knowing she, like a Mon-
arch, like an angel, like a believer,
has found Daylight—an open
sky without stress, health issues,
appointments, or prescription
medications. Human Experience
sits on a wooden porch swing,
dreaming about a Mississippi
summer, strumming complex
Blues. A slide show walks across
moments. Weightless steps
honor her Life. Old photographs
invite the past to sip coffee and
discuss good times (and old times).
Youth—bold, limitless, and fear-
less—crowds around a makeshift
table. A cap and gown, focused
eyes, golden brown skin (setting
standards). Progress is a narrow
road, but she got this. She got
this. Motherhood passes a per-
fumed torch; Aunt Ophelia tips
her crown; her sons        design
and tip their own. Pause for the
camera. Pause for the camera.        
Sisterly love—four queens perched
on high branches, challenging
the sun’s light or might. And the
clouds say her name. And her
family sings her name. And her
friends gather to uplift her name,
to remember her smile, to shake
hands, to tell stories, to trace    
yesterdays with patient fingertips,
with tears, with laughs, and
with Love.

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