… on what is handed down

When Mom died
And those who loved her
Went back to their everydays

When the dishes were washed
And put away in the same places I’d pulled them from
Since a day I cannot remember, so many years ago when I was a small girl

When I’d taken a quiet walk through her gardens
Whispering gratitudes to the crepe myrtle, the pansy, the rose
For filling her senses with beauty on her best days, and those not so best

When I’d looked up into the blue of a Kansas sky
And wished her all that she believed with her whole self and soul
It was then that I opened my fragile, vulnerable heart and marveled at her being

Her tender, her tough
All the permutations in between that were necessary to nurture
A garden
A child

I wiped away a tear
And tucked her softness, her strength into my own heart
Knowing one day my own daughter would tuck ours
Into hers.

For Kimberly, with so much love.

Thanks for readin’.

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