unfocused ~


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As of late, my mother has been sharing stories. Some I’ve heard, but others, I haven’t. It seems almost impossible that this much time could pass without me knowing that my mother lied about her age when she married my daddy. Of course, on the other hand, it seems unlikely they would have married had she not. My assumption that the laws were different then had never really been tested so I was surprised to find numbers written on the edge of their license. When pressed, she confirmed she had lied.  I suppose the justice wanted the ‘last word’, noting their ‘supposed’ ages to the official proof.

There’s another tale about her leaving the basketball team when my grandmother gave her the choice to either quit the team or stop seeing my dad. My mother actually fretted for a while over that until I reminded her that they only dated for a couple of months before marrying, at which point she quit school. I wonder how much of the last 62 years have been filled with angst, when in reality she might have missed two or three games.FB_IMG_1488552217459

But we do that, don’t we? The things that shouldn’t be given any weight at all are made bigger by our insecurity, anger, frustration, jealousy and need. And yet, the things that should be viewed as ‘big’ most often aren’t. We lose sight of the first kiss, choosing instead to focus on the first broken heart.

The attention given to my sweet Aunt Lyda* isn’t near the amount given to those whose lives were defined by bad luck and worse choices.

Mom wants me to write a book filled with her stories. I’m all for it, though periodically, I put down my pen and exclaim, ‘that’s not making the cut’ or ‘sorry, but that story’s going with you’.

It’s not the burden that breaks us, but the way we carry it.

tell me now
I will you
speak of times before
split the veil
wherein my name
is sewn
listen this reminder
lest I should pass
the night
burdened with
the memory
of every love
I’ve known

*My great aunt Lyda (my granny’s sister) was a beautiful soul. She married a man whose first wife was lost to illness. She helped to raise his three children, though she never bore any herself. They were hard times, and his wife had been buried in an unmarked grave. When he passed, Lyda had a stone made, bearing his family name. The first wife was moved, and for more than 40 years, they’ve lain next to one another, Ruthie and Lyda, with the man they shared between. It’s a story I love to carry.


breach of destinies ~


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where once
the summer fell
to make no sound at all
cedars crashed
beside their brothers

wings –
a sweet inclusion
come fly away with me
beyond the hues
was there
we knew –
the breach of destinies

wrapped in whispered
secrets –
tied with cords of lace
where times before
the past is left
– surrendered now
to grace

where not a word
to tell of how it was
days beyond
our counting –
a silence filled
with us

. . .

so it seems ~


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morning streams
reminders still
of just how close
forever willed
in sheets of cotton
patchwork vine
as crimson burned
into our time
another was
(and e’er shall be)
written to
the passing days
e’er as lips are cooled
but held as memory
(so it seems)
survivors of a promise rent
from faraway
so near the night
where once we slept
another dreams

. . .

falling past ~


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for moments
still to wander
backwards into time
beyond the first
memory of sound
of love
within the quiet
a liquid lullaby
how swift
returns the coming back
to lie beneath
the pines
void of all
transgressions –
the ghost
of waiting cast
are held a breath apart
where once we fell
into this dream –
another falling

wishes past –

what melody
the maple sings
against the morning rain
strummed beneath
the whispers
to beat the branches

i wonder
could you hear me
though lifetimes
lay between
the moment gone before
and this we know

before i felt
was saved
of wishes past –
stars already fallen
from nights
i loved you so

. . .

light through the window ~


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As of late, it seems I struggle with words.

No, that’s not right. It’s not a struggle really. It seems more I am resigned to a place unfamiliar (and yet not). It is a quiet peace, perhaps even a place created by grief, but not unwelcomed or uncomfortable.

It is a time of adjustment, acceptance, and clarity ~ a period of understanding that I have wondered might be related to aging, loss, or faith. Regardless, it is not cursed or filled with anxiousness. It is an unexpected blessing, a realization of grace, of love.

I miss my daddy, but it is not an ache that leaves me restless, looking for answers that I already possess. Rather, it is the little things where I find myself wishing he could share it with me (just before realizing that he does). When I round the curve on the road home and notice a group of more than twenty deer in the field near the woods; in wings fluttering along the fence line as I tend the feeder; a light through the window when I awake to the sound of my name.


Time is nothing but an invisible marker, a thread binding us forever to a moment – or rather binding the moment to us so that it is always the same, as near as our next breath. Ours.

We are never without love.

. . .