In memory . . .

Miriam Alice

Your departure is marked by smoke,

a grayish-white plume lifting to simple blue sky.

Nothing magical here, you might tell me,

that is, if you had a voice I could actually hear.

Your remains have been scratched into dirt,

and the X that marks your spot

is a miniature rosebush

guaranteed to bloom this summer.

In that garden a bronze plaque names you;

you are bracketed by those two dates,

February 17, 1925,

December 6, 2001:

beginning and end.

What rises in my throat and eyes

when I pause to remember

is that long stretch of you in between:

shy girl, sad wife,

woman bent down by time,

by a disease that erased you,

line by line, year after year,

until all that remained at the end

was the faint impression of a pencil sketch

on a vast white page,

no color, no shape,

but the intimation of a life

I try so hard to remember.

Eight years, one month, eighteen days

That was the last time I saw my mom.  When I think of her now I remember most her strength, compassion, modesty, and musical talent.  Most of my life I’ve been told how much I look like her, and I see it, too:  eyes set deep into my skull, pale skin, fine hair, wobbly knees.  If only I had half of her courage, grace, and faith. 

She came to me in a dream once not long after she died.  I was lying awake in bed, and felt someone sit down next to me.  I realized it was her, and she embraced me, told me that she loved me.  When I woke up I cried, wishing it had been real.  Sometimes I think it was.

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About creat1ve11

psychotherapist by trade, writer and artist by temperament, over 50 and not fighting it, love the idea of snorting milk through my nose, but have never actually done it
This entry was posted in aging, beauty, creativity, death, life, mortality, poetry, Reflecting, Uncategorized, women, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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