It is a fact. She sits in glistening darkness
most of the time as bitter blood flows
through fragile veins, pulsing, hearing
the beat of her heart, the beat of robust rain,
a beat that alludes defeat, and I always make certain
that across the room she has flower smiling
brightly at her. Yellow daffodils are her favorite,
and out of a pale pinhole, she can see, just barely
see, see the crystal vase full of something
so exquisite, it warms her, soothes her, brings
buoyant joy in a pure package, just for her.
She never complains of limitations. Instead,
she talks about the dogwood tree
that grew in the yard when she lived
farm as a young girl, how majestic and full
of life it possessed, so vital, unabashedly unafraid,
just growing and feeding is rich soil.
Or she speaks of the magnolia that only displayed
three three buds the year my father passed,
and how the very next year, the branches
were full with blossoms, or hoe in late summer,
she could smell and taste the honeysuckle
hailing from the open field just across the street
from the first house she lived in after marrying
my father. And how the rosemary grew wild
as she would pluck it and use in her baked chicken.
She sees out of that tiny, tiny precious pinhole,
but all she sees is something vivid, something
beautiful, and tells stories, stories most people
take for granted, stories that should be told
to grandchildren, stories that should be passed
on from generation to generation, stories
some people will embellish, or some people
forget, stories that quiet and comfort
my soul, and make me appreciate her: my mom,
her challenges, how she views beauty, just sees beauty,
just beauty, and comprehends, and never complains
or feels pity for herself. That is the true gift
she taught me, one that I do not forget,
one that I know, love, and leaves me breathtakingly
speechless.
