Dad told me once that when he and Mom went hunting for fire agates
With their rock hound friends, Mom would not hunt with the rest,
But would walk alone beside the old dirt roads,
Looking for bits of old glass.
I asked him why she did this and he said he didn’t know.
At first I thought that he did not care about it,
But then I saw that he still keeps a bucketful of her old glass,
purple with with age and sun.
I think she looked for glass because she loves us.
It is her mystery.
Now she is ripe with love and mystery and sleep,
Look around you at the family; she loves us and affirms us still.
God made her sweet,
Plumbed for children,
Tough and fibrous, watchful of her family,
Which wings around her now like birds
Flocking in unison at her command,
Obedient, tranquil, charmed.
We revel in the wake of her passing
Because she loves us in her sleep,
Because God made her that way.
(March 27, 2001)