bestowal

 

 

 

 

 

I have her hands

 

to hold her stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

acceptance

 

 

 

 

 

 

if wrinkles were flowers

we’d all welcome them

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

rare moments of clarity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 that day by the lake

 quietly absorbing the color and light

 

 

 

 

 

her chair

 

 

 

 

 

very sick, my mother spent the last few months of her life in a nursing home.  each time I’d visit I’d find her propped up in a chair by the nurse’s station.  one day I asked “what are you doing out here, mom?”

 

  “I’m waiting to buy my ticket,

the train is coming.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

november

 

 

 

 

 

the month of letting go