What a richness I remember,@12/22/2017 Carol Welch
before the harsh blast hit December,
when Mama departed to Heaven's home.
Before that, in "Let's Pretend," we'd roam.
When on the landing, by lamplight,
brothers shared stories, image bright.
Mama would say, "Sh, it's night;
sleep awhile, now don't cause fright."
To Grandpa and Auntie's house we'd go;
upstairs steps, "Careful, don't track snow."
Electric lights outdid our lamps' glow.
On their windowsill, blue lights would show.
Tall pine stumps dotted the pasture land,
where forestry had reduced the stand,
but, pillar-like, they land-marked the home,
where Mama grew up neath sky's blue dome.
The shanty, in winter, only stored wood,
where summer cooking and canning food,
and laundry, Auntie did with care.
An electric washing machine stood there.
At Christmas, to Grandpa's and Auntie's place,
her crippled body but shining face,
embroider with yarn, hands too stiff for lace,
arthritis, took deftness, but not her grace.
And, Grandpa, from wood containers, made,
toy furniture, the pretend sword's blade.
From an apple box, a doll cradle built,
and, Auntie, a lullaby would lilt.
December's greenery, gifts of love,
bright yarn embroidered jersey glove,
Grandpa's and Auntie's love would show,
and, still, in my memory, dwells blue lights' glow.