For Mom REMNANTS OF HER LIFE By Nan Jacobs ©2002 Mom, all that's left of you surrounds me: Your address book, old birthday cards, your certificate of death. Here . . . your floppy hat, a faded silk rose; those silly red socks, an old brown bag. Were these your life? Is this all that's left of you? Are you really gone? I see you now in dappled light, shaded by your floppy hat. The rose, plucked from hat's brim, tickles your grandson's chin. In your welcoming lap, he giggles. I picture a child knitting, her first attempt, with soft red yarn. The silly red socks you never could part from . . . now neither can I. I hold them, and I touch you. The brown bag smiles at me; through slits your eyes twinkle. Ah . . . your last Halloween costume. I laugh. The "Old Bag" laughs with me. We laughed a lot, you and I. You're not gone. You're here wearing the hat, smoothing the socks, laughing from within the bag, tickling memories with your rose. You're with me; you're here. All that's left of you is in my heart. You surround me, Mom. |