by Kelly Arnold

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Widener Valley springtime, blue ridgeline blanketing horizon, sky the shade of solace, sprawling clouds, rolling green hills and fields for miles.  It’s gorgeous here–an ideal couch for eternal slumber.  I scrub sides of small gray stone, tend the grave of two women I’ve never met, who died before I was even born, the sponge in my hand, an offering, my movements, ritual.  Daughter in law kneeling to receive muddy benediction.  Jenny’s an enigma-mama, initials branded into my father in law’s leathered arm (the only wife he’d actually loved, he claimed), flawless arch of her eyebrows appearing when my daughter registers surprise; her son shares my life and my bed, but she lives only in photos, nestled next to her mother in this corner of a burying ground in the shadow of Whitetop Mountain, hills we’ve come back to to build something new from the ashes of something scarred, believing we might transform a childhood of hurt and loss board by board—perhaps prayers are more potent in Damascus and we will wipe the sorrow and sadness that has slept like moss on this rock, carve a life of river stone and laughter, leaving only flowers in her stead. 

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Kelly White Arnold is a mom, writer, teacher, and lover of yoga. Her work recently appeared or is forthcoming in Walter, theengine(idling, Last Leaves and Pinesong 2024. When she’s not scribbling in notebooks or wrangling teenagers, she’s planning her next tattoo and daydreaming about traveling the world. Find her on social media @KArnoldTeaches.