Few are left who knew my Oma who became a mother at seventeen, a grandmother
at thirty-six, who found the least offensive name for me to call her by. A country Missouri girl who ran away with first boyfriend to a big city. Detroit. A girl who sketched weeds, wildflowers, critters in narrow lines of her Bible, bleeding into verses not read. A girl
whose father lost his faith and way, her mother dying young-overworked, heartbroken
for four of five children scattered . . . to the grave, to mental institution, to big cities.
Even going far away, my Oma never escaped her mother’s letters and pleas to now
“Mrs. McIntosh,” her beloved daughter, no longer Pauline Smith. Oma tucked those
letters, unanswered–that would later haunt her–away in her photography studio, where she gave color to portraits. A luxury post-depression thing to have done. Did she enjoy
sitting in solitude, penciling color onto black and white? Were the colors of her daughters’ dresses really robin blue? Did she anticipate this art going out of vogue so soon–losing
a dream, a business? Soon after divorcing spouse to be a single mom at twenty-three?
That scraping by would land her in industry offices involved in more wars? But when did she know she wouldn’t be a typical mom or grandmother? She had a few regrets–and many hopes for me.     Yet . . .     Oh, why is it still expected of you and me to be contained?
Maybe it happens when we throw away our name.