“The Mirrors are Sheeted”.
When I visited my paternal Grandmother,
The mirrors are sheeted,
“Vain child” is what she called me.
I am the product of a “mixed marriage”
Not of Race, but Religion.
When they married,
My mother did not “convert”.
She stayed the Methodist,
That she had always been.
As my father never went to Church,
Or, ever went to visit his mother.
My mum took me to Chapel,
Three times every Sunday.
And to visit my Grandma
Every Friday afternoon.
When the mirrors are totally covered,
Grandma makes me stand in front of her,
She is beautiful to look at, silver wavy hair,
She asks the weekly questions, always the same.
“Tell me, child, have you been to Church?”
“Tell me, child, have you been to Confession?”
Meaning, St. Patrick’s Catholic….
When I answer “No” to both questions,
I am poked sharply in the ribs
By Grandmas long black walking stick,
It has a fascinating mother of pearl handle.
How can such a beautiful thing,
Be so painful?
Then we have a cup of tea,
Made by my mother,
While Grandma tells me
How wonderful my Catholic Cousins are.
This weekly routine lasts,
Until I start work at 15.
Once, when I showed interest in the picture
Of the “Bleeding Heart of Jesus”,
Grandma gave me a picture of Jesus and
A Wooden Crucifix, “For my bedroom wall.”
The only time she ever gave me anything.
The only time she ever smiled at me
Was at my Wedding.
History had repeated itself,
I married a Catholic boy.
On the insistence of my
New Mother in Law that I convert
I had become a Catholic, and
My Grandma smiled at me.
NOTE: This poem was created using
the last line of Sylvia Plath's’ “Confusion”.
The last line is “The mirrors are sheeted”.
