A family legacy

Splintering sections of plywood
painted a graying white
lean against my 
living room bookcase.
They await my next move. 

Covering the 2x4-foot 
raggedly sawn pieces
and written in a tapestry
of red, black, yellow,
blue and green
the signatures slightly 
fade each day. 
Some block printed, some in 
neat script, others shakily
penned,a few with 
lines connecting first 
with last. 
All from the hands
of visitors to
my grandparents’ homes,
they testify to a legacy. 

Created by a saucy
boy who threatened 
to sign the newly 
painted blank kitchen 
peninsula wall,
the name board
evolved 
into more than
a curiosity. It became 
a memento of 
the kids who gathered 
early to celebrate
the fourteenth birthday of my
mother, a Christmas Eve baby. 

Years passed. Marriages, 
children, grandchildren. 
A new house designed 
and built, surprisingly 
incorporated
the name board. 

One day, the paint pens 
squeezed nearly dry 
called my name, 
urging me to
join the plumbers, 
Friends, pastors, relatives, 
missionaries,
friends, neighbors, and scholars
who visited my
grandparents’ home.
But I had to learn 
cursive first.
Would enough 
space be left for my
full name, or would I
have to join first and last
with a squiggly line? 
I planned and
practiced writing.

Time went on. More birthdays, 
deaths, births. 
A random, careless
carpenter pulled down
the name board, cracking 
into fragments the single sheet
of impromptu Modern
Art and creating
random groupings
of individuals from
all over the world, still united
by my grandparents who 
still quietly claimed,
“These are the people 
we encountered, those 
we loved, those 
we honored.”

Now, I’m the keeper 
of these disparate names,
separated by time and 
generations and a 
jagged saw.
These people, many 
of whose voices I can 
hear and smiles I can 
see in my memory. 
I recognize the name board's
legacy: honor 
the people, the shared journeys. 
But now I wonder: what 
icomes next? What 
is mine to do 
with their 
signatures?