A Prose by Any Other Name
Evelyna
A Prose by Any Other Name
by Laura Summerville Reed
I cannot write in rhyme.
My mind will not work that way.
I place the blame for this maladroitness
of speech squarely
on my capably, creative mother.
She, who could play the piano
with nimble fingers,
never sat any of her four children in front
of the keys.
One afternoon when I was a child,
on a length of plain brown Kraft paper
and with smudge-worn oil crayons
that I didn't know she owned,
and never saw again,
She sketched a mural
across the entire length of our living room wall.
When she finished,
she tore it from its taped-down edges,
and crumpled it into a waste basket.
My mother smiled at strangers
(but rarely in photographs.)
I grew up strong on meals that she
magically prepared by stirring
stones with sticks to turn out pots of gold.
I too, am a fine cook.
I learned this not by any formal
direction from her, but from such audible
musings as - ‘…I don’t have squash,
let’s see if okra will do…?’
or
‘Oh! Piss! I’m out of buttermilk,
hand me the vinegar.’
And so, I dash at this and pinch
at that, and never make the
exact recipe twice.
I don’t consider these things
her shortcomings.
She was far too busy with the mundane
waltzes her own demons
kept her dancing to
for me hold such trivial things against her.
No, where her culpability lies
is in my middle name.
I was named after a
paternal great grandmother;
- not so much in honor of her,
but rather after her.
She was quite old and infirmed
by the time my mother married
into the family,
and was already years gone to the grave
before I was born,
but it was a thoughtful gesture,
as I was the first girl child
of the new generation.
Her name was Laura Belle.
I’m thankful that my mother
had the presence of mind to
drop the round and clattering,
trussed and hoop-skirted
sounding name of Belle,
But the name
she decided upon fails entirely to entertain.
And not for lack of of inspiration.
For example,
my paternal grandmother
was named Zilpha.
Oh! Now there’s a name!
I’m certain I would have hated it,
but it is a terrible thing
that such a distinction of name
could not survive modern conformity.
For many decades,
backward and sideways
along the sturdy, womanly
limbs of my family tree
there were variations of that name.
Zilphianne, Zilphynna, Zylphia,
and on and on the name was twined
in many directions and through the generations.
There were Priscillas, Angelines and
Carolines scattered among
the branches, as well.
But my mother chose none of
those fine, matriarchal names.
Nor did she choose my favorite
of all the wonderful, lyrical names.
Evelyna.
She was a sister to my grandfather.
I adored her
and her name.
All those who were close to her
called her Ev or Evie.
She called herself Evelyna.
I know this because I have a few
notes and cards penned in her own hand
saved in her youth.
Her closing endearments always signed ‘Evelyna’.
There are lessons to be learned in
mastering the pen over
such a lovely name -
the responsibility of
all the curls and loops and
ethereal flow.
Evelyna Ballerina.
She would laugh in her tinkling,
age-palsied, little voice to hear me say that.
She raised cows and chickens.
She sold the eggs and milk.
She churned the sweetest,
creamiest, dreamiest,
butter I've ever tasted.
I hold every lover
whose lips I've tasted to that
standard -
all but two have been like margarine
on a cold biscuit
in the morning light.
She was a tiny woman -
made smaller still
by the daily bend and stoop
of a life lived over pails and buckets.
Long hours in the sun
were spent shaded in wide-brimmed bonnets
of faded calico.
She looked as fragile
as the eggs she gathered,
but perhaps she was more like a creek stone;
solid -
worn smooth
by years of only the same rushing past.
Her skin was as lovely pale as
unchurned milk before she turned it
into melty-yellow sunshine.
A scar, like a silver cord knotted her cheek
and trenched deep
into her slender neck.
Life had demanded payment
by extracting a few ounces of flesh
when she was only a girl.
There was cancer in her throat,
(or perhaps it had been her jaw)
but they got it all
- and then some -
“You can never be too careful.
But farmers’ daughters are a sturdy lot, after all,
and she’ll be good as new in no time.”
Oh! Evelyna Ballerina!
Had I a name such as that,
so many rhymes
would have sprung to my mind!
But alas and alack,
it was replaced with the prosaically flat
and rather pedestrian syllable - Lee.
©LSR 2010