Memory

I am with you for a moment in time,
a split, infinitesimal second in eternity.
What wonders do you hold?
What joys may I experience
    in watching your realization of the moment,
        the realization of your hopes?
What part of yourself are you discovering?
What new dreams are you dreaming?

You let me in.
We connect.
The moment is gone,
    but I remember.

^©1993 Sharon Terry

Fish Fry

Why were we the ones
    always invited to the fish fry?
It was a wonder to me,
And I loved it.
I felt so blessed of spirit
    and wonder of youth—
    and excited.

And in their yard was a wisteria bush
    with long, fragrant, purple blossoms
    hanging down from each branch.
We'd take one home
    and put it in a glass of water,
    and it would hang over the edge of the glass.
And I always knew, that
    when the wisteria hung gently down,
    touching our noses with fragrance,
    it was fish fry time again.

^©1996 Sharon Terry

The Garden Stone

I stand in the garden alone, though others surround me,
Pearl drops scattered at my feet in the morning grass.
The present moment escapes me as remembrances of the past
March through my thoughts, ancient mariners on parade
Through gates of hell and triumphal arches.
I immerse myself in the moments of grief over losses,
That inconsolable place within that nothing said or thought
Can touch or make different from days before.

The garden stone, formed with hands of love by one in love
Holds my son's name. Was he real? Or did I imagine him in my dreams?
No, for here is proof in lovingly crafted monument of clay.
To draw me back to his life and death, so young was he.

I do not see him dead but connected to me still,
Untethered from a body wrought with suffering and pain.
He remembers it not but only remembers love and caring,
Of his time spent here with family and friends.
He flies to me and touches my hand with gifts and then is gone,
Some other errand to fulfill, some other one to touch with gifts of gold.
He was a giver here and why now different?
Unencumbered by crippled body he touches many with his love,
And moves so freely and so quickly that in passing,
Awareness of his presence is like a breath.
Breathing in he comes, breathing out and he is gone.

I do not know how many he has touched from where he is now,
But more than ever he once could when in his flesh.
Others tell me of his coming and his going.
And find comfort and find strength and in him rest.

I do not wish for his return to life and love here,
For life and love go far beyond what he once knew.
And the richness that his life and death brought to us
Change forever how we see and what we do.

In the garden I no longer stand alone now.
The people move about remembering and loving.
For as we stand together in the gentle rain now falling,
We are touched by love he brings from God's own hand.

^©2000 Sharon Terry