The Day Grandma Died

Son Luke wrote this poem that I always refer to by the wrong name.

He wrote it as we drove across remote West Texas on I-10 returning from Mexico.

It tells of a day we floated down the Middle Fork in Illinois, catching fish on an August day.

One of the many creative things our kids have produced.

 

Telling Love In Dreams

The day

grandmother died

we went canoeing

on the winding river

that cuts banks

into the red dirt,

crumbling

through meadows.

Silently

sliding between

the shadow-rock

walls, the great blue

heron came close

overhead, sounding

like spirits falling.

I remember all of this

driving in the car

while you sleep

beside me.