I was born to be an ancestor.

At first they might light candles for me,

Remember my death day

Recall my features in a new babe born.

If I’ve raised them well they will remember to ask me for help,

When they’ve exhausted their living resources.

I hope they see the missal in the jenny wren that swoops

Through the garden.

Hope they receive my messages sent by stream, wind, stars.

When what remains of my body becomes nourishment in the soil for them

I also will disintegrate into tales told to daughters in fragments,

When the sound of my laugh no longer remains in living memory.

There was a woman, they’ll say,

Who took her children and ran to safety, who gave the most powerful no

Those in authority had ever heard.

Chosen to witness souls re-entering this world, carried on wings, helped by useful hands.

Will they feel me in the darkness in their desperate moments?

Will they forgive me my living mistakes?

When the traces are gone, will I choose to return?

Ancestor to myself, my granddaughters with the gift of spirit wings and useful hands

As they welcome the babies, singing my soul back again.