Morning Poem

 Morning Poem:  July 11, 2012

I woke today thinking of Mary.
The way she said my name with a slow, Texas drawl.
She spoke like a long, lost auntie.
She spoke like a shaded porch on
a sweltering day,
lemonade in a glass pitcher,
a rocking chair that moves,
slowly,
back and forth.

I woke with questions for my dad.
When did they meet?
I know they were young.
Did they stay in touch all those years
or were their lapses of silence?
Then that moment of reconnect.
That moment of remembered connection.

I woke thinking of Mary.
Her perfect hair and
little barettes and
good taste in lipstick shades.

How she loved to play
make believe games with Eliana.
How Eliana then named her
little plastic doll, Mary.

I see Mary in a little chair,
her long legs tucked
primly beneath her.
She sips make believe tea
from a tiny porcelain cup.

I see Mary holding hands
with dark skinned children,
walking boldly through
dusty streets
far, far away.

She sees this new world for the first time,
so late in life.

I commend her.
It takes guts to leave
all you know
for love.
After six decades on earth.
After children.
Grandchildren.

I was so touched
by the quilt
made by her lady friends
in Texas.  A parting gift
when she moved away.
It lay perfectly on
their bed in California.

Mary did things perfectly.

Only an incredible woman could
receive such a gift.
Each square of fabric
another piece of her past,
another carefully
crafted
memory.
Something to
hold on to.