My neighbor, Charma, sips tea
between throaty, wheezy breaths.
She clutches a Tareyton
and sends smoke signals into summer.
Her hands are mottled and
sun-damaged,
arthritic thumbs bent
into perennial no-votes;
swollen knuckles secure
her many silver rings.
These hands have known
80 summers,
held lovers,
cupped the faces of three children,
painted anti-war banners
carried by the Students for a Democratic Society
marching through Washington, D.C.
The beads she wraps
between her wrinkled fingers
are Job’s Tears,
strung
by the same twisted hands
and fashioned into circles
of white, gray, beige, and tan.
Some are malas used for meditation
in her Buddhist faith:
“Peace comes from within.”
“Hatred does not cease by hatred.”
“Happiness does not decrease by being shared.”
Others are legacy beads
that once cascaded to her breasts—
worn in Haight-Ashbury
during the Summer of Love.
Beads that draped
the bodice of her kaftan dress—
flowing in florals
of neon orange and green
during San Francisco summers.
The “Jobi” beads, as she calls them,
are grown in her backyard.
They grow tall as high corn,
whispering as she waters:
“I will heal you.”
She grows and threads
healing into every bead
for now—
and for when she’s gone.
“There will always be dissent,”
says the woman who has known
turbulent times.
“We don’t need another Vietnam
to tear us apart.
We’ve done that all by ourselves.”
