It's not a name that
steps lightly off the tongue.
It more often trips among
the crack of Irish,
the music of Italian.
It's the other side of the family:
Farmers and fishermen,
Uncle Joe the Oilman and Aunt Dot the seamstresses.
Dark and short.
Homely and dull.
Adults and children dressed in drab.
But here,
everyone is or has an
uncle, aunt, grandmother who is.
It marks each gravestone and mailbox.
It's emblazoned on bowling shirts.
It's Marie Babin's taken name,
trying to outlive them all
(like my Nana, 99 years old today)
still alive on the ghostly white tablet
outside St. Joseph's church.
So I say it now a little more French.
I say it without embarrassment.
I say it like it has meaning
as I cross the bridge
over dangerous waters
and drive the half moon
of Surette's Island, Nova Scotia.
