I never asked about her belongings;
I never thought that they'd be mine,
but now I look at them with longing
for their stories of her time.
I wish I knew the feelings she had and
how she found each one; see her happy grateful grin
while sharing about those places she has been
and all the people who had her love and loyalty,
then feel her touch my hand as she says
a very important one of them.....is me.
On this Father's Day, I feel badly that your mother didn't share with you any of her stories from her past. My mother often talked about her life on the farm, the tornado, her pet goat, Billy and how dad taught her to drive at 17.
A few years ago, she wrote "My Story," and told me, "Not to publish it." It contains little gems about her life that she never told us. She carefully packaged and sent to me many years ago what she had from my childhood, my baby garments, the chronicle of "firsts" as Roger and I learned to crawl, walk and talk, Boy Scout medals and other trophies, awards.
As my parents downsized by selling properties and household items, there weren't many mementos when she went into assisted living. My sister has them all. She recently downsized and probably gave them to her children. The 11 albums of her pictures I wish desperately to scan, are now with my younger brother who will scan them when he retires in a couple of years.
I’m sure you were by far the most important to your Mother Diana…
I have also felt as you with regard to my own Mother…
Sometimes trying to piece together what may have been…
the feelings and the people who loved her, and how it all came about…
So many unanswered questions, but I truly believe that one day we may
have all those answers and more..
A heartwarming poem, sensitive and heartwarmingly wistful…
The other Diana…
Such a poem on Father's Day reminds me that like mothers, fathers represent many of the unanswered questions such as you pose here. Unlike the years past, today, we have the ability to write out our feelings and convictions on most anything... those of us so endowed with the writing skills such as you always exercise and offer your readers. Keep it coming.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Regis. 🙏🌺🌼🌻💜
A few years ago, she wrote "My Story," and told me, "Not to publish it." It contains little gems about her life that she never told us. She carefully packaged and sent to me many years ago what she had from my childhood, my baby garments, the chronicle of "firsts" as Roger and I learned to crawl, walk and talk, Boy Scout medals and other trophies, awards.
As my parents downsized by selling properties and household items, there weren't many mementos when she went into assisted living. My sister has them all. She recently downsized and probably gave them to her children. The 11 albums of her pictures I wish desperately to scan, are now with my younger brother who will scan them when he retires in a couple of years.
Ron
I have also felt as you with regard to my own Mother…
Sometimes trying to piece together what may have been…
the feelings and the people who loved her, and how it all came about…
So many unanswered questions, but I truly believe that one day we may
have all those answers and more..
A heartwarming poem, sensitive and heartwarmingly wistful…
The other Diana…