My Santiago

Visiting a mother and a father

I am guided to the place this time, With ease, And spy the headstone “Row 39 C”. It is grey, with white lettering. Him named then her, Followed by five children, One passed on, Age, five

Don’t get here often to Row 39 C, And though this is simply a plot of earth where temporal bodies lie, It has meaning to me.

It is where I ‘talk’ to them, Telling them that they are in my heart, Where nothing is lost

if fed, Watered, Nursed, Cherished, Living through the timorous smile of a grandchild, The gesture of a son, The laugh of a daughter, Captured, traced, through DNA, And further back to grand parents we knew fleetingly; As real to me now as they were then; With her picture on my bedroom wall;

And each morning, Stepping out of bed, I greet my mother, All 22 years, In white tennis gear, Arms raised above her head, Beautiful, fresh, with youthful laughter and flashing eyes, As they were in old age,