Okay, this is going to be a little different. I just came across my journal that I had written thoughts in of my children and how they are growing up so fast. There are also writings about my mother and father, and how their passing away had affected me at the time . These entries were mostly written back in the 1990’s. There are even some poems from my teen years in this journal!
I think I will be “brave” and share some with you now, and also in future posts. Yes, I will be brave!
My mother passed away on March 4, 1993 at 54 years of age of complications from cancer. Patrick was only 2 and Caitlin (her 1st grandaughter) was only 6 months old. Knowing they would probably not remember her, and that she really didn’t get to spend more time with them, made it much more difficult.
Anyway, this poem ,or writing, is sort of a sudden realization of how we were so much alike. It actually happened as I wrote it. Here goes:
This writing is titled “The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far”.
*Somewhere, in the deep, darkness-far,far away,
A woman sits at her kitchen table.
It’s my mother, chewing on a fingernail and pondering what to write next.
The writing tablet lies there, anticipating the pens next scratches.
A page is half written.
What is she writing? Thoughts? A letter to a pen pal far away? A poem perhaps.
The table sits in total disarray.
There are papers and bills, keys and mementos from past occasions that she’s kept forever-much too precious to throw away.
Her steaming cup of tea is her only company-and she ponders -and she writes .
Look around the dimly lit kitchen.
Cupboard doors are left ajar. Country Cows and assorted tins and things are hanging on walls and sitting on shelves.
This is her domain – her place to let her thoughts wander and be set free.
Her time…she can’t waste precious time.
And isn’t it funny.
I notice as I’m sitting here, I am pondering and writing.
It’s late at night, and my tea is sitting next to me – steaming.
It’s quiet and still.
This is my time. I have to write. It keeps me sane.
My mind is cluttered too much during the day.
I write letters, thoughts and poems.
The light is dim and shining on my country cows and assorted tins,
and suddenly I realize how much I am just like my mother.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”, I remember, and I’m wondering if my daughters will follow suit.
It somehow makes me feel comfortable knowing I’m so much like my mother – and I can’t waste precious time as well.
For time waits for no one.
Not even for beautiful people like my mother.
Love you, Mom. 😦 Cheryl