Nothing is ordinary when the
mountain laurels are
in bloom, when they are
white landscapes, intricate
as ancient porcelain,
and the sky has finally
opened up and
let down platinum ribbons
and reasons to believe,
and it's all trickling through
the poplars, the honeysuckle,
the luscious moss—
this is no time for
a spectacle of memories.
"Where's Mom?" my grandson asked.
His world was plastic dinosaurs and juice boxes
when I had to explain what death is:
a new life, a better place, yes, a lovely place . . .
"Can I go there,
and be with her?"
When you're an earthbound tourist, just a
few years from that Heaven where only softness
is born, there's no such thing as cancer or
mysteries with bits of crumbling answers.
"So when's she coming back?"
I always thought joy was the only thing
that could happen when God showed up,
but then, how could all that light
crack open the granite shell of pain
that seals the earth
without voices on this side?
"I'm mad at her . . .
didn't she love me?"
Two wings,
the color of
merciful fire
slow down to love
the strange blossoms,
with a type of
love only
free spirits
understand.
"She loved you so much" I recall saying,
"that she tried very hard to stay."
My words fell around him
like snow,
and his eyes were filled with trust.
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