Mom was also a writer. She wrote poems. Not only did I write the story about her life but I also compiled her poems. After she passed we found poems everywhere. They were in journals in her antique chest, in her favorite books on the shelf and laying in places we did not expect. I published a compilation of the poems for our family and friends and called it Fragments. They were pieces, fragments of her life she needed to write about. I imagine it is like I experience writing. As you write and edit and listen to your words you gain more understanding. Writing causes you to stop and focus. She wrote regularly. I read all of her interesting writings. I learned even more about her and probably more than she really wanted me too. As I said above she was quite private but she knowingly left her writings for us to discover. She shared little of her poetry when she was alive. She did not find it necessary or helpful to do so. Sometimes she would offer a poem to each of her four children so we all knew mom was indeed a poet.
And we knew we were her greatest love along with Dad who was her knight in shining armor. Here is a poem mom wrote for us that I am sure she would say it was fine to share.......
Reflections on a Mother’s Day In her Garden, 1976
Amidst these seedlings
Nodding new-born heads against my sunny garden wall
I think today of you
My son, my daughter, my daughter, my son
Nourishing these sprigs and those that spring from me
Has been my everlasting and cherished joy
Tall, strong and beautiful you have grown
And within you I meet and sense a strength
Giving answer to a gardener’s prayer:
May there be roots that search deep
That reach out to seek a world
Hidden beneath the cover
Of this protected bed.
For Mike, Greg, Robin and Sue from their mother
Indeed this is the prayer that mothers hold for their children.....
This photo must be circa 1995 ish of our family.......
And this is a poem she wrote about her first grandchild, Ethan, Greg's son.
Son of my son
Your little boy – hand
Enfolded in mine
We stand for thee expectantly at the ocean edge
Our legs touching as we wiggle our toes
Beneath the slipping sand that is
Pulled back into the sea
Your little fingers curled within my palm
Gripping memories of other sea days rush in
As the waves roll toward us
“Here it comes again” you cry with glee
The white sudsy wave tips fill those spaces
Between our toes as we press deep to hold on to sand
Slipping, sinking, sliding, riding out again.
“Will it come again, come again?”
No stopping the tides,
the tumbling waves will roll up to meet
and tickle little boy toes
And I am sure Ethan remembers his times with Grammy as do my girls. In fact I know how much Ethan loved our mother. I am proud of the grandmother my mother was. Her love was true and forever warm. I know my daughters have their special memories of Grammy and of Pa. I hope that Doug and I will also be able to build those types of memories with this first grandchild. And, I hope that Ian's mother and I will build a grandmother bond of nurturing and support together. Wouldn't that be wonderful? So, looking forward to this adventure about to happen.
Today, it is unseasonably warm, most snow has melted, rain has fallen, it is gray outside yet welcoming for a new day, a good day to be born?