- She spoke, "Am I dying?" I cried for her fear and for my futility.
- A broken hipbone fused vertebra and metastasized cancer. Pain, pain and end.
- Siblings that haven’t been all together in years joined now to comfort each other.
- Reading to me when I was ill.
- I now read to her. I read because of this woman that knew I wasn’t ‘slow’ when others thought something else—dyslexia.
- “How did I get here?”, she said.
- Pale gray eyes, most of the time shut and rarely alert—her eyes are hazel aren’t they?
- Labored breathing
- Dry mouth with yellow nodules inside.
- Wrinkles in neck. Teeth seemed to be removed.
- Fear about seeing her.
- Indescribable love when I did.
- Wanting to pick her up and cradle her as she did with me so many years ago.
- Wanting more time.
- Surreal melancholy, the comfort of family.
- Failure to write as mom often encouraged me to do.
- Dedicated to my mother, my true North.
- The best medicine Family, Chloe
- The best death is an unexpected death.
- Slipped and Fell, Slipped away.
- Stories are told from start to finish but a life is measured from the end to beginning.
- When is a debt not a debt, when the act is done for love.
This is the accounting of the death of a woman
I am a good person. I am not worthy of my parents. I can be.
She didn’t ask if it was cancer. Would it have made a difference?
She would not have questioned another’s resolve. Nor will I her’s?
She really did walk 5 miles to school.
She really did go without food eating only carrot stew.
No one is perfect but love can be.
No match is perfect, but you can work hard and find contentment – meaning
Finding the middle ground.
Always, always keep thinking.
Never be afraid to ask an question.
A girl on a swing, pretty poka dotta dress in a black and white photo, but filled with color and promise unexpectedly rich, rags to riches. Constant, death and taxes, but the tax man can be eluded.
“How did I get here?”
Love of family.
Timeless, unyielding, unmatched, unresentful, ‘unremarkable’, she would have wished that everyone.
Pillar of the community, dutiful, hardworking, reliable.
She would say her life was unremarkable but I would say it was remarkable!. Words of Wisdom.
Pearls of truth
Of scrabble and crosswords, puzzles and shuffleboard and bridge.
Gifts intelligence, kindness
Dry wit, intelligence, zest for life
Indulge, but not too often.
Cut loose but quietly.
Dreams do change.
Find peace and contentment.
The grass may be greener but a wild flower grows anywhere.
He can have more spaghetti
That was his father’s egg salad.
I will breath for you Mom, so that I may speak for you.
Happy Day Mom! Everlasting Love
Writer’s keep a journal Kevin.
I haven’t but I will.
We’re about to have a thunderstorm
Life well led.
Speak your truths quietly and clearly
My mom was a teacher.
She taught everyday
She shared her mind, she opened her heart.
But for love we cry
A cruel death
A beautiful death
I want to be your trumpet. Seven times over.
If you’re talking to yourself It may be the only you can have an intelligent conversation.
“It’s only a problem if you hear a reply.”
Just find a place for everything and keep everything in its place.
When Art and Elaine were ready to take me back to the airport I couldn’t find my glasses. I looked high but I didn’t look low. They had fallen to floor of the porch. I commented that Mom might have been telling Dad, “Some things never change.”
“When you become a parent you’re no longer in the picture, you become the picture frame”.
We start with a blank canvass. Our parents provide the palette with shades that color their own lives. We dabble with that hue or this shade and our image forms, held securely in place by their own solid frame.
She could play a game of Pictionary on an itty bitty portion of a single sheet of paper.
Never ceased to be amused while striving to be amazed.
As I struggled thru a learning disability and childhood injury Mom ingrained in me that
I had no excuses. That if something was hard I needed to try harder.
The summer I graduated from high school. I got a phone call from a girl. This doesn’t sound noteworthy for most people but it was my first such phone call. “Oh Kevin, you have a phone call.” I took one last shot at the rickety hoop hanging from the tree. “It’s a girl!” She said excitedly. I quickly raced inside and mom followed right along sitting on the couch in the den near me. I placed my hand on the receiver, “MOM!”, and looked at her imploringly. She left the room.
She made dresses, taught sewing and needle point, passed on the art of cooking and little tricks like rushing home just before Dad returned to start a pot to boil. She did this because Dad expected dinner to be underway, and Mom was out late bottle digging.
She decorated bicycles and floats for parades and helped sisters with the prom dresses
And she counseled the youngest shy son about girls.
I waited at the top of Elm Street, next to Boley’s for Mom to return from Portland with my speedometer. A car came up the street and turned into Boley’s . I took off running up Hillside, through the little field behind the apartments where Art & ‘Lanie’ lived. Back at the house, I picked up my basketball hoping the kids that often were at Boley's would come down to play. Instead a woman came down. She accused me of being a spotter for a group of kids that was going to rob the place. My lips started to quiver and I began to cry. Just then Mom pulled in. OMG! Never before and never since did I hear Mom say the things she said, with such unbridled anger and distain for another person.
Don’t get between a mother and her child.
To the soft summer squall
These were reflections on a son's love for his mother.