Portfolio Page 5
A grandmother's adoration
Mary contemplates the miracle of
life asleep in her lap. Miss
Madison was a dream come true.
Mary contemplates the miracle of
life asleep in her lap. Miss
Madison was a dream come true.
A.C. Sanders Writer
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The Passage
| Though in our care these last years, they were our buffer against time, against age. Their passing leaves us looking over the cusp into the unknown, eternal Faith sustains us, faith reinforces that feeling in the gut, an assurance that there is a bridge, a crossing to a better life beyond. A reunion, perhaps, with those who loved us, nurtured us, raised us, then let us go to fly on our own. They watched with pride. They slipped into our care, gradually. We remember not the moment when roles change when we nurtured them. They let us go in our time. Now we release them, tired,ravaged, to be refreshed, to find re-creation. A.C. Sanders |
Though I stake no claim to the poet, sometimes the mood strikes, and I muddle
through one. These moods are usually a reaction to love or loss in relationships. At
those times, the words seem to flow, sing. One such time in my life came during the
last months of my father's life. We were not close in our adult years, yet there came
a time when the supervision of his care fell into my lap. A strange feeling of
reconciliation, mixed with anxiety of becoming the senior male in the family stalked
my consciousness. There had been a comfort knowing he was still there. I do not
relish the patriarch role, of being the older generation. My own mortality lurks in my
mind.
I expressed these emotions in the following poem which I read at his funeral. In
December it was awarded first place in the free verse category of a contest
sponsored by El Paso Writers' League.
through one. These moods are usually a reaction to love or loss in relationships. At
those times, the words seem to flow, sing. One such time in my life came during the
last months of my father's life. We were not close in our adult years, yet there came
a time when the supervision of his care fell into my lap. A strange feeling of
reconciliation, mixed with anxiety of becoming the senior male in the family stalked
my consciousness. There had been a comfort knowing he was still there. I do not
relish the patriarch role, of being the older generation. My own mortality lurks in my
mind.
I expressed these emotions in the following poem which I read at his funeral. In
December it was awarded first place in the free verse category of a contest
sponsored by El Paso Writers' League.
