Betty was the first woman to waterski on Fish Lake; she had a flair for fashion as a young woman and the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen on a woman. When I was a child she was my costume maker, chauffeur, and cinnamon-toast-maker extraordinaire. She never failed to remind me, the little rascal I was, ”If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say nothin’ at all”. And even when I left home, she never failed to say how proud she was of me.

Charlie was a witty old man with a sharp tongue and a big heart. My grandfather was never in the greatest health, but that didn’t stop him from saving a kid who had fallen through thin ice. He was drafted into the Air Force – and though he never went to war, he never spoke of his time in the military. But every time I left the house, he’d wink and say “Grandpa loves you”

Cleaning out their house over and early thanksgiving weekend with my mom and Ezra brought back many memories. It was so surreal. I know even when the last pieces of them leave their home, their memories will always be there – they’ll always be with me.

Its been a long long age since you left us
or was it me? Oh, its clear, it was me.
Oh it’s been years and years since you spoke out
or can’t I see? My clear sight has left me.
Its been an eternity for hidden,
hidden homeless huddled masses we’re one.
It’s been one voice of power for too long,
and we reach out but our hands are still closed,
closed forever to passing open hands.
And now you’re a stranger, once known, no more,
someone I used to know, oh used to know.
I am used you know, by the reckless hands
of my open reckless heart, now silent.
No more groanings for peace and poverty,
just the simple sign of our apathy.
Oh I am broken, do you remember,
who I used to be, a martyr for you?
Or so I thought, until I realized
I’ve been bought, though my worth amounts to naught,
no dollars, deeds, or debt. Open my eyes
give your breath, I’ll escape the fate of death.

this word i leave you
a writ plea to the end
sweet elegy held on a breath
brought low

eyes empty and hollow
joyful spirit turned mute
hands open with naught to hold
as all falls

a sense for the senseless
a life for those passed
brought back from sorrows i’ve sold
to awake.

Ever has it been that loves knows not its own depth till the hour of separation – Khalil Gibran