when I saw her last, she was walking a bit slower
her gait still jaunty yet slightly bent
she moved with familiarity of her body
the memory of how she moved in youth
pivoting, twisting, stretching
all in quiet grace
fluid
but now she was forced to hesitate a bit
wait for her body to catch up with her mind
still sharp and bending
adventuresome
her eyes were a bit cloudy
not with tears of remembrance
but with aging melancholy
peaceful
she saw things now in a softer focus
knew what mattered
in a way she never dreamed or thought through
when she talked, it was a slower process
for her prose to come through
and when she sang
it wasn’t the cool higher tones of spring
but the warm dulcet tones of autumn
still beautiful in its season of color
wise
her time with her instrument was limited
for her grip was not as strong
but she could still sketch truth
better than anyone I have known
imaginative
she still insisted upon baking her bread
and growing her garden
until she could create no longer
for though these things seemed to me fleeting
she knew that’s what I’d remember most
tangible
she looked askance at her photographs
that filled the wall behind the sofa
some yellowed and torn, some dusty, some worn
and felt no sadness for those that were gone
but a new calm at the idea of seeing them again
anticipation
predawn
are there dreams at night
you can bring out in unforgiving light
or is it always dark where you are
are there wishes you fish for
but getting lost in the teeming rubble
makes you forget your intent
are there too many voices
crying in chaos yet in unison
or can you still pick out mine
do you bleed and spew
just to show you grew
did you learn you were never whole
are the images too stark
to make you retreat to the dark
or will you keep the lights on
1 Take. Let go.
Off the record, off the charts, off the books. Nothing is wrong with my memory. It tells me what I saw, how it was. You like a mirage through the rain. “I’m in a mood for you,” you sang, “for running away.” Sweeter words were never swallowed. I almost faded waiting to hear you again. But even your words shine through a dim day. The taste of you and the reminder of your touch remain. Never fading. Never growing old. Like in that perfect instant snapshot, clinging to a love that would always be a hallowed figure, dancing in the rain.
we bend
time seems to bend
like a Dali clock
sort of warped and messy
when I’m with you
or talk to you
or think of you
I feel like myself
during our time
sort of warped and messy
with no constraint
or restraint
or construct to hinder us
What I Can Do
I’m not a seamstress
can’t weave or sew like my grandmother
I’m not an artist
can’t paint or draw like my other grandmother
I’m not an athlete
can’t play ball like my uncle
I’m not a chef
can’t cook gourmet food like my other uncle
I’m not a gardener
can’t make things grow like my aunt
I’m not beautiful
can’t model like my other aunt
I’m not a doctor
can’t patch people up like my parents
But here’s what I can do
I can hold you
I can write the right words
I can love you
The Word Rummager 