I wrote this at age 18, but now feel inclined to share it publically.
Memorial
Day
written
Winter 2003
Faded
memories and a familiar pain
condense
to droplets of sadness
suspended
in air
scented
by lilacs cut from grandma's yard
and
reverently placed on the headstone
where
dirt is carefully washed away from each letter
and
dead yellow grass is brushed from grooves
of
ballet slippers and numbers that frame her
eleven
years;
her
life like the bright sparkle of sunlit winter frost,
a
source of light still shimmering in tears
of
the cousin surviving today in grandpa's arms
and
tears falling across the freckles of the pony tailed sister.
When,
in the silence, broken only by prayer,
the
drops fall, one-by-one, and ripple
in
an ocean of faith—each drop reflecting
a
little more light.
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