45. The Red Lantern

Writer’s Note: My uncle recently shared an excerpt with my family about a red lantern my grandpa made as a child and how that lantern held a special place in both his and his grandma’s heart. It inspired me to want to write about it, so did a brief poem below. Hope you enjoy.

The Red Lantern
by Matthew McKibben
For Bertha Kizia Honeywell; 1872 – 1952
For Henry Arthur Fulmer; 1857 – 1928
For Hank Fulmer; 1923 – 1997
and for Sherry Strait Fulmer; 1948 – 2005

In first grade…
Young Hank colored furiously
with a red crayon that matched the tongue that hung lazily out the side of his mouth
as he tried to stay within the lines of the pattern
handed out by his teacher
and as he brainstormed which family member to give it to
His mom suggested his grandma

“We made paper lanterns!”
He proudly stated as he handed it to his grandma.
“I made one for you!”
Her hands, spotted and textured with old veins tenderly held the lantern
As she inspected it closely, admiring its vibrant colors
and loving the areas where the red ventured outside the lines
“I know a perfect spot for it.”

She hung it by the window in her kitchen…
And every night, the sun would kiss the red lantern
as it set over the Kansas plains that rolled Westward
Sun light gave way for Edison light as Grandma washed the dishes
and grandpa smoked his after dinner pipe.

Emperor Hirohito broke the peace and like so many men of his generation
Young Hank signed up to do his part.
Thoughts of young children playing in fields
of fingers with dirty fingernails picking vegetables from the garden
and of red lanterns
were exchanged for
young men fighting in fields
and of fingers with dirty fingernails fueling airplanes
And of red crosses carrying dead bodies back home
Grandma longed to have the young boy who couldn’t stay within the lines
Return home to her and to see his smiling face once again

Return home he did…

The family gathered at Grandma’s home for her funeral.
And young Hank held his firstborn daughter Sherry in his strong arms
She wouldn’t remember any of what he showed her
But “this was your grandpa’s favorite chair”
And “This was your grandma’s Bible.”
He showed her the room where he first listened to records.
And the living room where they once had an argument about something long since forgotten
He took her into the kitchen and there hung the lantern.
Faded by the sun, but still vibrant and red.
When he saw it, he cried.