Listed in 1911 were four houses,
recorded in black cursive long-hand,
holding then the seeds to my existence.
One in the swamp in the South bore my father's name,
and three in the West,
where dwelt the Tribes of the Sea,
held the other pieces of the helix.
Unravelling the threads,
that doubled every time I came closer,
I saw a woman alone,
no trace of the ten children she bore,
two were dead and the living,
all sailed for less green lands.
I reached across the empty place at the table,
to tell her that the auburn curls she gifted,
have passed to my son;
that I gently stroke her hair
to lull him to rest.
On the Island remained the young girl,
her face a mirror,
in order that our tribe may remember.