To understand my essay, which recently took 2nd place nationally, I would like to give you a brief note about

the DAR: Yea, I have a goodly heritage. We repeat this at meetings in Daughters of the American Revolution. We count ourselves fortunate to have inherited the genes of patriotic ancestors, long dead but never forgotten. We remember them in our mantra, honor them with service projects and memorials, and pass on their lineage to our own sons and daughters.

Legacy of a Broken Limb My goodly heritage will not pass to another generation. I am haunted by a child who would not be. Culmination of my patriot ancestry, he might have had my mothers eyes, my fathers grin. This is the tender state of my mind as it searches through paper and memory. My fingers remember brushing an ancestors signature on a frail, yellow document. I knew I shouldnt touch it because of the oils in my skin, let alone take it out of its protective cover. But I needed to connect to this long-dead relative. I tell myself not to dwell: focus on love and laughter. Instead I reach for our family history book. Its like when you are a child and begin to lose a tooth. It hurts, but there is something appealing and necessary in the ache. You play with it, wriggling yourself into the pain until finally youre free of it. The space will be hollow for a little while. But roots are strong and they will be replaced with a tooth thats new, stronger. Still in that place of necessary pain, I delve into the family history that has defined so much of my life; a history that ends with me. A trail of patriot ghosts precedes me. I march across the pages of our family history book, exploring stories of war, love and migrations. I didnt always pay much attention to the lines that ended; those broken limbs of the family tree. Who does? When youre looking through family history, your focus is on those who came before you, and who came before them, and who came before them. Sometimes you stop when you reach your goal: a Revolutionary Patriot; an 1812 soldier; a Union soldier with his small role in a major battle. Other times you let yourself browse. Occasionally while exploring their lives you marvel over the large number of children and repeated names. Theres not

much room for melancholy. After all, loss was a way of life back then, wasnt it? In my own healing process, I withdraw. In order to recover, I need to dig a little, hurt a little. I see the pages again. Here were four same-named children of my ancestors, each dead before age two. I remember reading about the importance of namesakes for property, of namesakes for tracking a family history. It makes good sense to keep using the name of a dead child. Its important to carry on that name. Logical. Perfectly logical. I imagine a twinge in my navel and my hand instinctively cups my belly, still protective of my now-hollow middle. A long, ribbed scar reminds me of our child, lost seven times, a fragile womb taken for the sake of my life. When I was young, I dreamed of seven children. In reality, I suffered seven miscarriages. With each loss, I gave him the same name. For me, more than a decade passed trying to bring one child, the same child, into being. I understand the logic of my pioneer ancestors giving their dead children the same name. But I cant stop picturing a mother, in love with the soul of a lost child, desperately willing him back into the same life, same name. I turn pages in the book, now looking more closely at those ended lines adjacent to my ancestors: siblings, aunts, uncles. These are the ones Ive always overlooked. They may have a short paragraph about some interesting life as a missionary, or perhaps they did some great deeds in life or left all their money to a favorite charity. Often though, a broken limb ended in a few lines: Married Mr. X. No children. Died xx-xx-xxxx. The words bring me to the wall I am expecting. I slam into it and the pain is more numbing than cathartic: Married to Mr. X.; No children; Died xx-xx-xxxx. Some odd, pragmatic section of my brain has kicked in, and I imagine the next writer of this family history will be relieved for such a short blurb. Humor often has odd timing, but Im grateful for it. When Mom was dying, we didnt talk much about the grandchildren I never gave her. She talked instead about her childhood, her faith and asked me to read her the stories I

wrote. At the time, I thought these were distractions from the cancer and pain. Now I understand them as lessons in how to live, how to love and the true meaning of legacy. Understanding doesnt take away the damage of loss. Awareness doesnt shorten the grieving process. When you have fresh grief, you find yourself spiraling into that dark realm of pity, digging into the pain, for connections to older loss: Beloved grandma who made cookies and gave warm, eternal hugs, lost before you were 8; Her husband, the grandfather who played piano for you on Sunday mornings and gave you that golden cross necklace, lost by age 10; Father, who handmade your toys, who sang to you, who was your own and only daddy, lost when you were the magical age of 16; Unborn baby x 7; Mother, who taught you who you were, who you are, wrapped in her arms, seen through her eyes, lost before you reach middle age. And now I reluctantly allow awareness to dance alongside the slow procession of my grieving. I understand now that the stories she told and asked me to tell were not distraction at all. They were the heart, the purpose, the meaning of dying and living. Moms faith was immutable. She accepted her fate and knew her destination after this world. I let myself into those memories of our last years together; her last lessons as teacher for her daughter, the ever-stubborn student. Mom had many childhood stories, some of them about growing up in absolute poverty, with Christmas gifts by the grace of the Salvation Army. And in most of these tales, she led the focus to aunts and uncles. Here was an aunt who was a missionary. Here is the necklace passed down from her to my mother, her namesake, along with a letter about her love of God and life and family. This aunt had no children. Here were an aunt and uncle. Uncle had a marvelous occupation through which they traveled the globe and moved about the country. Along the way they paid for Moms college education, along with a few of her siblings. They had no children.

Between these accounts of hard and beautiful living, she would ask me to read to her some of my writing. She had favorites: any of my poems, especially if they were lyrical; Toro the Goat a childrens story of a calico dairy goat and her adventures; Genesis for the Feminist a tongue-in-cheek rewrite which always prompted Mom to say something like God has a sense of humor but I hope He gets you to put your talent to better use after which she would ask me to read it again. And as I sit among these papers and photographs, turning through pages of the dead, I find comfort in this new insight. Like her childhood and the lives of my ancestors, each hardship and passing has its balance in love and life. As I reach into the depths of grieving for my mother, my babies, my ancestors, I pull out stronger love for my husband, my siblings, my nephews and nieces, cherished friends and their children. Not everyone is meant to walk the same path or make the same choices. And in this way we become balance for each other. Each time I suffer, I have the opportunity to see the world differently. Each time you suffer, I have the chance to give you my compassion and love. Soon I will become a grand-aunt. My grief will continue, in different measures over time, but now I understand the meaning of legacy. The parts of me which continue dont have to come from my loins. My love and laughter, my ideas and personality can become memories of a favorite aunt, beloved cousin or honest friend. Stories I write and causes I support become part of my humble contribution to the life I leave behind. My child is gone, many times over, and now I create life through writing. My ancestors pass into history, and now I surround myself with women who become surrogate mothers and grandmothers. We make connections to each other through our goodly heritage and our universal bond of love, loss and family.