Eldest

I believe I will be the first in a long line of

eldest daughters not to take care of my

parents when they become old I am

the breaker of unspoken traditions 

My aunt and her first daughter have

both cared for my grandmother

As my grandmother for her father 

And my cousin for my great great aunt 

Women in my family are caretakers they run

cold water over hands burned on old Pyrex

dishes removing from the oven their casseroles

for the church homecoming 

This church whose cemetery guards the Earthly

vessels of people I know only in digitized slides

uploaded to cracked phones my mother can point

them out tell their stories 

Stories of women who have climbed upon

crosses and martyred themselves as good wives

good mothers good daughters our family’s

blood a well it streams from the tap

Good woman she’s a good woman plays the piano

sings for the church dutiful beautiful I never fit

the box I was supposed to vanished from the pews

appeared on prayer lists 

My grandmother fed the wildlife with a brace

on her wrist she piled leftovers she could not

shove into her fridge onto a paper plate and

left them on the porch 

My mother chided her—it’s not safe—well

how would you feel if you had to scrounge

for measly scraps of sustenance—my

grandmother the English major means well 

Feed the hungry Jesus commanded her so she

gives the raccoons bacon and the hummingbirds

sugar water dyed with red 40

and the grandchildren fresh baked cookies 

In the dewy morning’s first light I trailed

behind my father carrying a tackle box half

my four year-old size full of bullets and

targets and extra magazines 

I crawled on my belly in the tall grass like he

told me lined up the sights so the metal would

swing with the soft plink of a bullet I could

barely hear through my earplugs 

Pink ones made specially for little girls who

grow up to be the man of the house flinch at a

raised voice crawl under the car to change the

oil like our fathers showed us 

Still I sacrifice myself I feel my lineage

plunging my arms into soapy water after dinner

cleaning up someone else’s mess like we all do

when we become our mothers 

I will know I am mine when I am skilled at

finding keys or glasses or people’s flaws back

bowed like a sagging shelf from carrying the

weight of generations 

Whether I find myself far from the roots I

planted in the clay soil or I stay where my

great grandfather gave whiskey to Bonnie

and Clyde I am all of them 

These women in my family coded into my genetic

makeup widows teachers civil servants minding

their manners holding their tongues I speak for

their endurance for its toll

The firstborn of my mother’s children I will

bear none of my own but I will survive as the

eldest daughters I am descended from southern

compassion southern grit

Peyton McFarlain is a young creative hailing originally from Houston, Texas and currently based in Fort Worth, Texas. Their work draws on their southern roots and passion for history and nature to speak to the heart of something human within all walks of life. They have previously published a short fiction piece in the North Texas Review. They enjoy writing by hand and by typewriter to make every step of the process slower, more thoughtful, and intentional.