A Life in a Day

By Rhonda M. Ward
Jenny Freeman
1748–1832
Mother & Grandmother
Enslaved in this house by William Noyes
“A good Christian woman”
—Witness Stones Inscription

i. morning

Early mornings, before the sun has shown itself,
before the Noyeses have creaked across
the wood-planked floorboards of their chambers,
I gather my family ’round the breakfast table.

Nancy is five and saying grace for the first time today:

Thank you for the stars at night
Thank you for the sun so bright
Thank you for the food you bring
Thank you God for everything

She singsongs the verse I have taught her
as our little Prince, hungry and impatient,
kicks his feet sitting on his father’s knee.

In these moments, we are more than names on a list
of possessions, more than bodies to be bought and worked.
In these moments we are mother and father,
daughter and son—human beings
simply being human.

ii. midday

My Prince has long been lost at sea, victim
of the Barney helmed by Captain Ezra Lee.
Of my babes, three have died, one remains,
one enslaved Lord knows where.
My young Prince lived so honorably
as to press upon the heart of his mistress.
But Pompey, blind in one eye, half-seeing
in the other, never bothered with impressions.
He secreted himself off in the black of night
only to be caught and brought back.
Of all my losses, Temperance pained me most.
Good, good Tempy. She held to my skirt longer
than all my babes.
I could not be consoled at the hearing of her death.
I wept and wept and wept until
at last I slept the sleep of grief.

iii. evening

After Jenny’s death, Ellen Noyes Chadwick saved her
“black ivory heart-shaped knitting sheath,”
and Dr. Richard Noyes kept her small black teapot.
—Carolyn Wakeman, historian

After all these years they have taken to calling me
Old Black Jenny. I suppose to tell me from
some temple-curled Young White Jenny.
I am old but I am brown. Black is this old teapot
gifted to me by Mrs. Noyes.

Nancy, my first and last, pours a hot cup.
We refresh each other’s memories as we sit—
me knitting with the aid of this old black sheath,
another gift received some celebration past.

I have knit a life. Not with needles and sheath
but calloused hands, and a sweat-soaked brow,
with endless tears and desperate prayers.
Though my life has never been my own
I have made the best I could of it.
Notes:

This poem is from “The Witness Stones Project” portfolio that appeared in the November 2021 issue. The authors write about the series and the collaborative process here.

Source: Poetry (November 2021)