Page 17


INVEST IN YOUR PRINCIPLES. Now you can start putting your money where your heart is. There is a new generation of professional organizations and individuals dedicated to balancing your investment objectives with your social concerns. Order your copy of the 1983-84 FUNDING EXCHANGE DIRECTORY OF SOCIALLY RESPON-SIBLE INVESTMENTS: the most up-to-date listings of socially responsible money markets mutual funds co-operative enterprises vg’ investment advisors Send $5.00 to Live -Oak, P.O. Box 4601, Austin, TX 78765 Name Address City Zip Unwritten Legacy for Bess Rubin Holiday from the still heat, wind, caught in the low trees, sings for its release. Like the rhapsodic grandmother, tied in her own tongue, wind signals Houston, Texas, tapping china, heralding the arrival of beauty from an unused, wiser city. No one, however, and nothing arrives. Nothing dies or is reborn here where the imagination strains to make four seasons from the bland string of months scalloped across the used-car lot, the uniform cabbage palms lining shopping streets like east and west companions to my travel plans, and to my unplanned travel back. This September evening feels the same as August’s fat, Mobius middle, the girth I tried to circle and be done with, but fear that nothing changes is one faithlessness I have to live with. Faith is the bone I broke, the oath drawn from your unsteady heart, a twig snapped in the ear of a dreaming world. And faith is the fire called allor-nothing: orange sun that changed my grandmother from a suffering woman to a well-served one. She died like a ball rolling down the street, and in my dream of disbelief, latkas and applesauce were served while her look-alike looked on, the companion to her memory whose perfect imitation make it less and more painful to imagine her gone: as if it were a holiday, the family around a table she swept over, the second-hand deeming us one hour. Faith is the fire called all-or-nothing, the orange sun that rose above airport traffic like a raised right hand, the orange sun that rose, a queen above her subject. It was a morning of mercy, a holiday from the still heat, I remembered how her heart beat against the small apartment’s walls Let me out! she cried, I’ve lived here since I was a bride, and that was fifty-eight years ago. The sun is her face and simply tells me it is time: either I can trust your love or I must prepare myself to suffer. Grama, if I take the oath, I’ll take it in its original tongue, But only from his burning mouth to mine. THE TEXAS OBSERVER 23