January 2017


text & photography by hunter Armistead


A Frame of Film,
A Line of Words,
Capture the Creative Culture of Our City

Merry Anderson

Mother, Spanish Interpreter

In Her Own Words

In sailing leaves and talking trees, turning phrases like locks of hair, toes parsing the dirt, divining, she lifts her azure eyes to heaven.

Born Mary, named for that Mary,
descendant of the same myrrh
brought in adoration to her Son—
(she told me it’s sometimes bitter but sweet when crushed)

There, on a bell of a bend in a camper, before an altar of wind, stone, and timber Merry and husband
send two sons reaching

high on a cherry red swing—

tied to a twin taken at 18.

Now and then she pours tumult into a crucible Smouldering passion becoming embers igniting a fire of love anew,
clearing deadwood and hope

Once broken.

With an ear for His message
in Spanish or her mother English tongue She attends that peace that settles within

All the while making very merry, her other ear to the ground listening for whispers of truth.

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