The sun poked through branches of hickory and oak and filtered on our faces and on our Sunday’s best. We seemed immortal as if the whole world was before us and our lives would never end. Delicate biscuits made from the hands of a woman who suffered women’s oppression and the Great Depression filled our bellies with warmth. Time had stained her freckled hands just as she stained her country eggs in vivid reds, blues and greens. She was the sap that stuck to us all and never let go. I swear her love hides still in her quilts and I catch wafts of her in the Easter breeze. Tractor tires whose miles are in the far distance found a new purpose just as her hands were blessed with good fortune and love. Tulips sprout from the ground alongside buttercups and those tires smile and laugh with the spring that is kissing the earth. Her eggs are hidden there just as bright beside the tulips, quiet with the promise of rebirth. I still see those tulips in those tires growing tall and dancing in the crisp air. When I think of them I see she is there too, each spring. She is now in the air and in the pigment and in the love I feel from the filtered sunlight through the branches of hickory and oak. It is this time of year and others too that I think of Grandmother’s tulips.
In Memory of Ruby Phifer 1918-2010