Memories of our babies – NaPoWriMo Day6

My first child was born, along with all the other spring flowers, in April. Her birthday is always at the height of nature’s beauty. I adore the photo of her as a curious toddler reaching for tulips. Some mothers write poems or letters to their babies for them to read when they are grown. (Fathers can do this, too!) Writing down sweet memories of your child’s baby days is a precious gift to them. My baby turns 21 next week, but oh, I remember when she was little.

In April when the flowers bloom
And bring respite from winter’s gloom,
My thoughts turn to a little girl,
More treasure to me than any pearl.

Her little face, so sweet and round,
I loved no matter she smiled or frowned,
When her tiny fingers clung to me,
I never wanted to set her free.

And yet there comes a time for all
To let their children fly or fall.
We let them know our love for them
And wait for a chance to hug again.

Posted in letters, poems, writing prompt | 1 Comment

Memories of a neighborhood – NaPoWriMo Day5

One thing I love about our neighborhood is the age range of the residents. From newborns to the ninety-plus-years-old couple two doors down, there is life all around. What do you find special about your neighborhood?

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Benchwarmers

I went to fetch the newpaper,
And there was my neighbor
Sitting on the ledge of our terrace wall.
I put aside my plans and joined him,
Tempted by the joyous spring sun
And an old friend I had missed during winter.

We chatted and laughed, exchanging gossip,
Watched the children walk home from school,
Said hi to those who passed by,
Just as neighbors do.

The nip of a breeze finally sent him in,
With hugs and promises of future chats.
He rose carefully, and took small slow steps
Up the street to a wife who probably worried
What took her husband so long
To gather in the sun.

Linda Austin
“Cherry Blossoms in Twilight”
http://www.moonbridgebooks.com

Posted in poems, writing prompt | 2 Comments

A picture of Alzheimer’s – NaPoWriMo Day4

Alzheimer’s steals not only memories but the ability of the mind to connect with the body. My mother has this, and I’ve come to grips with it, now used to the sadness of watching the disease progress. I stopped by the nursing home after work today and found my mother eating ice cream and watching the others use children’s watercolor sets to paint coloring book pages of flowers. I sat down to work with her, pushing to see if old talents would come to the surface. I’m glad I finished writing her life stories before the Alzheimer’s took firm grip of her. I urge others not to wait until too late.

Landscapes

She
who once painted birch trees
reflected in a still pond
and dark pines
moody in the snow
can no longer paint
even a single tulip.
She holds the brush
in a frail hand
unsteady and uncertain.
Her mind cannot stay in the lines
or connect the dots.
A red smear marks the trail
of her disease.
She falls asleep
and I wonder if her dream
will be of beautiful trees
or whether her thoughts
can only be
still water.

Posted in aging, poems | 2 Comments