She recalls the long ago.
And she forgets the half a moment away.
Mystery in the mind, mystery in the aging
A life gets blurred like watercolors on a canvas.
Color present, color faded, lines and detail run away and off the page
Until a version of blurry new is present in the present.
And what will I recall.
What will I remember.
Will the written anchor memories of each, of the three, the best, the challenges
I dream a dream of capturing it all in bell jar, lid light,
In marked detail , the love and laughter
Growing up at my feet, at my bosom for years
If you add them, all the days between the three
It would make one old child, but they are three
And will the words help bury memories, encase them in a time capsule
Just in case the mind and memory fade as it does and as it did for her
She says remember when you and how could I, barely I do, I barely recall
I the child she the mother of this obscure event, no event is unworthy of recording
All are worthy, all are worthy.
If I write and when I write may it be a doubled effort to recall
The smallest moments in their, our, this life.
Branding, blazing all the breathes in ink, in stone, the sacred ones
The what He gives, the what we take
No it is what we receive, and remember and offer back
By recording, all the moments in an effort
She remembers the smallest detail from long long ago.
May I remember the smallest details from long long ago.
And begin to see through her eyes, a glimpse, a slant of how
She saw and how she sees
That is grace.
Joining Emily at Imperfect Prose for her one word prompt this week…Mother.