“The subject of a poem is as foreign to it and as important, as his name is to a man.” —Paul Valery
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She is around five years old, standing with straight posture, following instructions from the person behind the camera, her father or, her mother. She is barefoot in the yard, in a white frock and oversized straw beachcomber, dressed for fiesta, or only the occasion of the photograph. Beneath the kitchen window a bed of flower bulbs push leaf spears into air. One spindly stalk raises a bloom taller than my mother, though the hat overcomes the difference. She squints at the bright sky behind the person behind the camera. Her expression is solemn, assured. She is proud to be the subject of the photograph, not smiling, but happy. She’s as at home as the blooming flower beside her. One hand is placed politely over the other, her left foot rooted a half step behind the right. A moment ago her back was parallel to the house, now she’s turning slightly toward the camera, facing the same way as the bloom. I recognize the flower but can’t name it. I’m certain she’s repeated its name in my presence. I begin mentally listing flowers she’s mentioned in the past: camellia, heliotrope, Indian paintbrush, nasturtium, wisteria, amaryllis— “papa called them naked ladies to tease mama.” A memory pushes up from underneath, opens its petals and lets out my mother’s voice, faraway in time but inwardly audible. From some inner room of memory she softly pronounces the string of plosive consonants, gulping palatal diphthong, sibilant finish. A word that fills the mouth with its capacious warp. If I were to trace the shape of its sound it would resemble a pocket, or a bulb: gladiolus.
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I know the house, though I’ve never been there, my mother’s childhood home in Santa Barbara. I’ve seen many family photos taken there, with siblings, cousins, uncles, all standing outside for better lighting, by citrus and avocado trees, by hydrangea bushes or the papyrus fanning the front window, wearing fiesta outfits, putting on a new roof, in black and white, then color. I know most of these relatives only by name, came to know them through photographs and family stories. John served in Italy during the Second World War; Annie owned a bar; Clara had stomach cancer. My mother was the youngest of seven siblings. She called her parents “mama” and “papa”. (I am the youngest of four and say “mom” and “dad”.) Papa worked for Tillamook in Oregon where he met mama renting a room in her mother’s boarding house. (Dad rented a room from mom in Monterey.) Mama was resourceful and never threw anything away. She’d say, “Waste not, want not. Want not, worry not. Worry not, live long.” Her name was Gladys.
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“Gladys” comes from the Welsh, meaning royal, or the gladiolus flower, or obliquely from gwledig, meaning rural. The myth of Saint Gladys, an abduction story that figures into Arthurian legend, differs significantly from historical accounts of her life. In the myth she is kidnapped and rescued by Arthur, only to be coerced into marrying her kidnapper. Historical accounts indicate that her marriage was voluntary and harmonious. Both versions end similarly, however, with Gladys a widowed hermit who bathes in rivers and eats a vegetarian diet, or fasts. “Gladiolus” comes from the Latin diminutive for sword, and is colloquially called the “sword lily”. It’s named for the tapering lanceolate blades sheathed along its stem. Ginger also flowers, though it’s known primarily for its rootstalk. The name traces its origins through Late and Middle English, Latin and Greek, all the way back to the Dravidian family of languages indigenous to southern India and Sri Lanka. It also appears in Middle Indic, Sanskrit, and Old French. Its etymology could be described as rhizomatic. Language, like photography, is prone to tautology. A caption for this photograph might read: my grandmother Gladys grew gladiolus tall as daughters in her yard.
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