Today would be my mother's eighty-sixth birthday. Her life ended October 2006 in the hospital where my brother's life began. Within the week following her death, he and I discovered that she had been more of a diarist, writer, and collector of writings than we knew. Quotations, childhood memories, feelings, poetry, Bible verses, dreams, and snippets of her life were written randomly in her pretty calligraphic style throughout her many journals. She passionately loved the arts, referring often to them. This is one of her entries that we read at the memorial service. I, the apple, know that she, the tree, would be glad for me to share it. After first quoting from Longfellow, I hold the remaining words to be her own.
"Art is long
and time is fleeting"
We stay on earth
our appointed time
but the pictures we painted
the poems we write
stay
We may move on
but we leave our love
Our genes, our traits
will carry on in
those we've loved and left
The words we've said
may linger long
and get passed down
by pieces and bits
and we are never really gone
as scraps of us are found.
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