The Gift

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I remember the little white package.

It was a rippled red ribbon so neatly tied.

Crossbow over the square gift.

Placed just under the 3 ft. Christmas Tree.img_2329

Set on a table with white cotton tree skirt.

“It’s not much,” she would say.

“Oh, Grandma, anything you give is always too

much.”

We would smile as her trembling hands reached for the gift.

“Thank you Grandma,” as we opened the gift gingerly.

There in the little gift was a pair of sheer stockings.

“Grandma, how did you know, this is just what I needed.”

She would smile delightfully with light behind her blue eyes.

You see, the gift of love was one she could not wrap in paper.

The caring hands were never measured by a moment.

Her memory is not in just one generation, but many.

Her gift, I treasure, it was the gift of love left lingering.

Copyrighted: December 2016  CMM

Moments Soup

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It is the parsley speckles floating in my soup,

 

as I sit looking outside the French doors.

 

Winter’s drizzle leaves traces downward

 

as time has left the traces which bring me to reflect.

 

 

Warm soup lifts in the steam left over

 

from the heat of the pot recently served,

 

brings warm thoughts of a time

 

brought by the seasons of another time.

 

 

A moment on a still chilled morning,

 

browns from the outer doors,

 

the dripping from the roof makes

 

all else in the world un-felt by it’s nature.

 

 

In this morning’s nature of warm soup and rain,

 

I have sat my day’s readings aside written of women’s

 

conflict and strife to feel the privilege testimony

 

that only a morning of notice would allow.

 

 

I think of the histories of history and I go.

 

I go far back to the shadows of Grandma and Mother.

 

I feel their aroma in the warmth of my soup.

 

With a clandestine smile, I have realized the ingredients

 

which made them survive—

 

 

copyrighted: CMM 2005
revised:  CMM 2012

Grandmother’s Handkerchief

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Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’

 country store, filled with scents of Autumn.

The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
 
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears

I looked over to see the wonderful

handkerchief made of white organdy.

 
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.

With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat.

Sitting next to my grandmother,
 
her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion, combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window.
 
 
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.

Her hands laid in her lap of a homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.

 
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.

 
The choruses were sung from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often come and go.

However, not this constant memory of

 
the organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,

with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
 
 
© CMM   2011