Member-only story
Juanita lived in a double house, one for her and one for him, joined and yet asunder like Frida and Diego. More force of nature than woman, but still pure woman in all her ferocious tenacity, from the top of her 1940’s coif to her doggedly persistent toes: pure woman, pure dignity, pure class. Also: hell on wheels, with “oh shit” elegant in gold upon her neck, a diamond dot for the i, she scooted with purposed efficiency wherever she needed to go. They told her she would never use her legs again, pronounced the letters “M.S.” over her like a deadly incantation. She accepted that challenge, and walked at his funeral, battle proud, adversity defiant, my childhood idol, burnished gold with age, my role model, my patron saint of determination, the One and Only Juanita.
This poem is in response to J.D. Harms’ prompt in Scrittura: Intimate Portraits. Check it out below. . . .
My Dad is a photographer, with a passion for the history of Waco, TX, where he has lived since 1953. He was friends with all the old-timers, the avid…
