Saturday, December 9, 2017

who Mother was, and is

Mother’s touch still lingers

twelve years have worked upon these woods, and upon me,
since Mother breathed her last breath here,

during the Great Fire a year ago,
the great beech up from us
finally gave up the ghost,
toppled and mostly burned,
a tree that was great when my mother was born,

the cabin still stands to manifest
Mother’s dream of the last homely house

before city disappears into forest,
a house to serve as door into nature,

a home built by love, maintained with love, shared with love,
centered around the kitchen, the dining room, the porch,

where shared food can hold family and friends as one,
like a mother can care for you and hold you,
so that you can be open to others and yourself,
and embrace the joy that can be inherent in the moment,

I am sad today that Mother is gone
and is no longer here to take care of me,
to make sure I have enough to eat, a place to sleep,
concerns that still drove her as Alzheimers pulled her away
from being able to touch the moment with words and actions:
she would still find her way back to check if someone visiting
had enough to eat, a place to sleep,

there is magic here at the Cabin,
hard by a dropping creek,
a creek which calls kids to play and lose themselves
in the transformation water, rock, sand, and youth,
make into a playground, a playground
which calls adults to follow the kids with their heart
and relax for a time, before obligation and work call them away,

Mother gave us everything she had, everything she was,
I am sad that we lost her,
I am joyous that she still lives in the Cabin
and in those of us she touched with her love.

by Henry H. Walker
December 7, ’17

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