Something a little different in this series as I attempt a bit of prose myself.Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 058
This is the hand that held the pen
 that wrote the words
that filled the pages
that engaged the reader
that soothed my memories of a mother that once was.
 Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 059
These are the flowers that caught her eye
that wrapped themselves
into a brain loop
that continued for an hour:
"I think those are the flowers
on the table in the dining room."
Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 063 
This is the chair that comforts the body
that rests the mind
that reads the words
that envelopes the day
that relaxes the core of an elderly woman.
Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 065 
These are the books that fill the hands
that stimulate the brain
that occupy the hours
that flood the eyes
that enrich the days of an aging parent.
Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 064 
This is the desk that faces the window
that begs to work
that beckons a writer
that sits alone
that no longer provides a pasttime.
Disneyland and Mom Visit July 2011 070
 This is the book that visited the hands
that tried to recapture a memory
that provided a discussion
that filled an afternoon
that left as fleetingly as it came.
                                                                                  My mother's poem Alaska.
All photos and video taken by me during a visit with Mom July 2011

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Comment by JMac1949 Today on April 24, 2013 at 7:54am

Before we moved my mother out of her home and into assisted living I would fly to Texas every few months to bring fresh eyes to the assessment of her deteriorating condition.  On the last visit a few months before my father's funeral we were talking in the living room and I asked her to play the piano for me.  A  life long musician, she said, "Oh no, I can't remember how to play that thing."

I pulled some old sheet music out of the bench and sat down to try to pick out the tune by ear, and after a few moments I asked her for help. She sat down beside me and after a few moments to ascertain the melody and chords, she began to play and we began to sing.  This is the last song that I ever sang with my mother:

Comment by Zanelle on April 24, 2013 at 7:56am

Oh my,  such a contrast to the post I just put up.  I envy you your mother.  Thank you Thank you for sharing these special moments.

Comment by Arthur James on April 24, 2013 at 9:14am


These Today's Post Get Readers Heart's Swelling.

My Mother had Hands That Looked Exact Same.

This Spring I Sense She Lives in Flowers, Birds,

Soaring Red Tail Hawk. Eagles. Tiny Blue Birds.


I was admiring the migrating light blue bird.

The One that builds her nest in prepared boxes.

Each Morning I sit speechless as the sun rises up.

The Rooster (not cock) Flap his Wings Three Times.

Then He Makes The Dawn Hues Spread Forth Glory.

Awe . . .

I have to listen later.

Librarian don't care.

The mortician does.


Share - Beautiful

I Will Share This.

Deeply Touched.

Comment by Schmoopie on April 24, 2013 at 10:56pm

Jmac: Your moment with your own mom made me cry.I'm glad you had that shared moment.

Zanelle: Heading over to read yours now. The memories help.

Art: Some beautiful words of your own right here. Thank you.


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