Remembering Jeralee

I wrote this at age 18, but now feel inclined to share it publically.

 

Memorial Day

written Winter 2003

Faded memories and a familiar pain

condense to droplets of sadness

suspended in air

scented by lilacs cut from grandma's yard

and reverently placed on the headstone

where dirt is carefully washed away from each letter

and dead yellow grass is brushed from grooves

of ballet slippers and numbers that frame her

eleven years;

her life like the bright sparkle of sunlit winter frost,

a source of light still shimmering in tears

of the cousin surviving today in grandpa's arms

and tears falling across the freckles of the pony tailed sister.

When, in the silence, broken only by prayer,

the drops fall, one-by-one, and ripple

in an ocean of faith—each drop reflecting

a little more light.