Keepsake

A colorful cardboard picture
in a modest wooden frame
of the classic stunning sunset
at a beach without a name
is all that I could salvage
from an unforgiving flame—
the only proper symbol
the inferno didn’t claim.

It shows a tree that’s leaning
toward a distant setting sun
as though in need of comfort
from a world it sought to shun
a lonely, brooding being
that had wearily begun
to humbly reach for heaven
before the day was done.

Our purpose is unfathomed
as is much of what we see
which makes belief an exercise
in forging your own key;
I know she’s out there somewhere
with the angels being free
and hope she’s found the solace
that this image brings to me.


***Well, it's been a year since my Mother's tragic and senseless death. I don't know why it happened and am still not over it, but have been slapped in the face with reality enough to know when it's time to just accept and move on (which is most of the time).

I've thought about everything, especially why I write, and have come to realize part of it was a secret inner dream that I could write something good enough to snap Mom out of her addictive spiral into oblivion, or maybe score big and have enough to send her to Betty Ford or someplace where she could truly heal. She loved books and always had her nose buried in one.

Alas, such just wasn't meant to be, and now it is quite pointless to dream thusly. Where ever you are, I love you Mom, RIP. ***