Sightseers into Pilgrims, by Evangeline Paterson
I used to think --
loving life so greatly --
that to die would be
like leaving a party
before the end.
Now I know that the party
is really happening
somewhere else;
that the light and the music --
escaping in snatches
to make the pulse beat
and the tempo quicken --
come from a long way
away.
And I know too
that when I get there
the music will never
end.memoir
Buckled Love
Cereal and blueberries. That’s what I should have for breakfast this morning. But as I stare at the quart of blueberries sitting in my refrigerator’s fruit drawer, I change my mind.
Two months ago my mom died. Yet, it seems like she’s still alive, and like she left years ago. In fact, I wasn’t able to mourn her for the six years she suffered from dementia, but since she’s died, I’ve celebrated her vitality and misdeeds and shenanigans and mostly, her love for her family, in big and small ways. Continue reading
Mother May I
Mother, may I laugh with you, even as you breathe
out your last memory on the Covid floor?
Oh the days we laughed, once I was a child no more. Continue reading
No Visitors Allowed
My mom doesn’t understand that a virus is attacking the world.
She doesn’t know that those most at risk are the elderly and that at 96, she’s a non-moving target.
She doesn’t realize that the virus takes the most vulnerable, and those who live in a “memory care” facility are the most vulnerable. Continue reading
The Dollar Bill
I hate department stores. I don’t use the word “hate” lightly. The empty vastness of material nothingness; the bright lights spotlighting our greed; the vapid noise of elevator music and high-pitched meaningless laughter.
Thus, when my daughter suggests I go with her and my 11-year-old granddaughter for a girls’ day of shopping, I respond immediately:
“Of course. I’d love to.”
roughwighting 