She thought of her mother as she remembered when she, herself, was only child: dark of her hair, match of her eyes, an elegance of untrying that was feminine mystique she herself never felt she had. Through the years and distance of time, she saw too what she didn’t then; a sensuality in the elegance does not see or know as child but learns when such instills into one’s self in time and age and become of aware.
She smiled in remembrance, all the ways and times they shared; what she saw in her then, what she saw in her now—years and time and lives in pass, but still the spirit and the love.
She wondered what she thought of life: her hopes and wants and prayers: those that became and others too—as all have—reserved to dream or forgotten all together.
She thought of her on the darkest night, her spirit falling into same.
But in the morning—remembering again—there was solace in sign and sun’s return. Warmth in remembrance remained.
She wrote a poem on scrap of page as if speak from heart to her.
No one would ever see, but that was never the point of the words.
The point was to write, giving form and word to that within her heart.
Written, made, so many times—she found that it became.
And so it was, in the morning sun, warmed in love-remember: that she felt her mother near again, dark hair and eyes when they both were young, untry of elegance she always adored and loved.
She cried quiet tears, warm and loud as the love-remember; but this time it wasn’t sadness but gratitude—to have lived and loved all they had shared—that overwhelmed her then.