God gave us memories that we might have roses in December. ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922
Time burns her memory like a building on flame and my heart keeps re-entering to salvage what could be lost soft cuddles pushes on the swing thoughts shared all return to view I cradle them out of the wreckage with the tenderness of a mother yet fervour of an explorer certain I will retrieve something new that had been once consumed by time's tarnishing way
one vision at a time relinquished like a photograph taken out from underneath the protective glass yet they still fade tattered at the edges and dust inbetween reflecting the weakness of my memory to capture every moment like a camera but I will carry on with the recovery holding on to each one like a child's hand afraid of loosing them out in the open streets for I am the guardian and sole heir of them all and I will carry them with me in homage.
I turned 47 this year; the age my Mother was when she passed away. I never realized at that time how young she truly was. She never saw us kids grow up, attended our graduations, had the pleasure of participating in our weddings, or held her grandchildren in her arms. Now I am very aware of the blessings that I have to see my grown children, and have the opportunity to watch my grandchildren grow up. When I look at myself in the mirror I do not see the many wrinkles, or all the grey hairs, that seem to accumulate like dust on a picture frame, I see the reflection of my mother's smile, and her heart that lives on in my life.