“Poetry is a way of holding experience,
not holding on to, but holding.”
Anne Michaels
Canadian Poet
Something was over.
The war, I was told.
People were happy.
I was two.
Whatever war was,
it was good it was over.
I was right to be happy.
We all were.
Our side won.
My Navy father was coming home.
My mother dried her wet faced.
We had meat for supper.
My grandfather prayed long.
Seventy five years later,
I look at an old family photograph,
me on my grandfather’s porch,
ringing a bell in black and white.