To Grandmother and Mother

This is a poem written in the midst of nostalgia.

My Mother sang songs softly in my ears,

in the Fountain of Youth, supplementing fears

with closure; I was sent off to a world I dreamt,

colors danced effervescent.

 

In the height of pain, when I feel wasted,

a jaded fool without a mantra, I reflect.

Stretching towards nostalgia, I recall this safety,

floating in this momentary peace.

 

Mother once sang of the day,

 I crossed the threshold her front door.

I wonder if she feels a pain in her heart,

when she thinks of her child, now grown.

 

In the depths of Winter, memories of Grandmother

provide clarity in my heart,

allowing me to see a beauty in the silence

of December chill; frostbite vampiric.

 

Grandmother, such a sacred vocation!

Even in your death, when I expected stillness,

I felt a warmth in a fantasy where I imagined,

you remained an angel beyond the grave.

 

Grandmother, I spent your last hours praying

that I could take the pain away,

which pursued you through your dying days.

This phantom effort mocked my tears.

 

Time buries me in my transgressions.

In desperation, I turn to these thoughts

of Saints, although not canonized,

their love is blessed as the love of Christ.