I'm at Mom's house up north, sitting
in her office, using a laptop bestowed
By the techiest sibling. It
Features no photo ap with which
I'm familiar;
So my strivings to ponder Mom's
Life and her living
Will
Have to post
Bare of pictures.
If our day and
My week of fix-it moments here
Were not all but predetermined,
I would imerse my heart and mind
and seive-full words
around
This place,
These times,
Those times now gone,
And Mum.
So, as she sleeps away her
Post Mass moments
To
Ready for a luncheon later,
I breath deep lungfuls of River air,
Field a call or two from
Loved Ones in my other world,
Then hurry to contrive some way
To understand this houseful
Of
Matrefacts.
On walls,
In closets, pantry, and
Garage;
They may as well be monuments to
Kitchen chairs and talking.
Essential hubs of motherhood.
This Place. Her Words.
One makes room for two.
One makes room for you.
How did I do with that
Brief window of time
When it was my turn?
I missed so many places,
So many words,
Omissions one could only see in hindsight,
But I resolve
To keep my sight
Full forward.
Prayerful
That by ones
Each generation follow,
At Christ's bidding, with
More excellence
Than preceding mothers could;
Compose.
Direct,
Conduct,
Rehearse.
Devising ears for perfect phrasing
That,
When Christ returns,
Our symphony of family might
Be readyful
Of perfect praise and
Worship.
Or,
Will I be satisfied to sit,
A spectator
Of others' opuses.
My mom was but one canary,
Yet by singing, we might rise
Toward harmony with Him Who Calls
The Tune.
Time to go. No rewrites or proofing. Just a wish
that all my children and their cousins could
convene
Before the cross,
Agreed...
10/24/12: And here's the pic I'd liked to have posted back then, plus a few more:
Sharing the photo of her Uncle Rob's famous painting
in her office, using a laptop bestowed
By the techiest sibling. It
Features no photo ap with which
I'm familiar;
So my strivings to ponder Mom's
Life and her living
Will
Have to post
Bare of pictures.
If our day and
My week of fix-it moments here
Were not all but predetermined,
I would imerse my heart and mind
and seive-full words
around
This place,
These times,
Those times now gone,
And Mum.
So, as she sleeps away her
Post Mass moments
To
Ready for a luncheon later,
I breath deep lungfuls of River air,
Field a call or two from
Loved Ones in my other world,
Then hurry to contrive some way
To understand this houseful
Of
Matrefacts.
On walls,
In closets, pantry, and
Garage;
They may as well be monuments to
Kitchen chairs and talking.
Essential hubs of motherhood.
This Place. Her Words.
One makes room for two.
One makes room for you.
How did I do with that
Brief window of time
When it was my turn?
I missed so many places,
So many words,
Omissions one could only see in hindsight,
But I resolve
To keep my sight
Full forward.
Prayerful
That by ones
Each generation follow,
At Christ's bidding, with
More excellence
Than preceding mothers could;
Compose.
Direct,
Conduct,
Rehearse.
Devising ears for perfect phrasing
That,
When Christ returns,
Our symphony of family might
Be readyful
Of perfect praise and
Worship.
Or,
Will I be satisfied to sit,
A spectator
Of others' opuses.
My mom was but one canary,
Yet by singing, we might rise
Toward harmony with Him Who Calls
The Tune.
Time to go. No rewrites or proofing. Just a wish
that all my children and their cousins could
convene
Before the cross,
Agreed...
10/24/12: And here's the pic I'd liked to have posted back then, plus a few more:
Where her Dad emerged and worked. El Reno/Kingfisher, OK.
Sharing the photo of her Uncle Rob's famous painting
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