Wednesday, October 16, 2013

You don’t know me but



Her grandmother, too,
made quilts every bit as fine,
and with the same deliberate patience;
we still have them, and will, long after
the wind has blown the rose.



This image was sent me by a friend
who visited my mother’s grave
a few days after her burial.

I haven’t met this friend; I know her only
through the letters we’ve exchanged
during the past several years.

This is part of what she said:

“I hope you don’t mind — I took the liberty of paying my respects to your Mother… attached is a picture of the homemade offering of two small roses we placed at her resting site. I also saw your father’s headstone and at one point stood in-between them and started my you don’t know me but story… and proceeded to tell them how we came to cross paths… what a lovely resting spot.”



4 comments:

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Just to make sure that you know that you are not alone in all this.


Mother

A Canadian girl, she was buried in Texas.
Adopted, she thought maybe she was Dutch,
but she had a Scottish name.
Still, she looked so Irish in the casket.
She had an Irish heart…loved poetry
and horses and song and after all those years
of living, it didn’t mean a thing.
She never did get home, wherever it may have been.
I guess if you’re just buried somewhere in the Earth
it’s basically the same.

Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

William Michaelian said...

And home is anywhere we are, and everywhere we’ve been.

Thanks, Gary.

And I do know.

Jan said...

This was a beautiful thing that your friend did and I am sure that it meant so much to you that someone visited your parents resting places and paid their respects because they cared~~~

William Michaelian said...

You’re right, Jan, I think it was wonderful. And the photo of my mother’s grave site before her stone is in place is something we never would have had. It’s really something to treasure.