Our Mother's Mother

Memories fade.
A life’s history is slowly erased
by age and condition,
unresolved disappointments,
frustrations, and dementia.

Mom always asks if we have heard
from her mother.
It is either a cruelty or a blessing
of my mother’s
old age
that she doesn’t remember
her mother’s death, but
becomes upset
when told Grandma died in 1961.

On the other hand
she longs for her mother.
Whether it is for protection,
a comforting voice, or gentle,
reassuring hands that would cradle
her face, it makes no difference.
Perhaps it is enough simply to tell her
that even though her mother can’t be here,
her mom loves her and is proud of her.
There are some things old age cannot drive away.

Sonata Allegro

I was born in music.
 Drenched in it.
 Before my eyes had barely opened,
I had heard the sounds of nature,
 voices, instruments.
    I knew the passion of pounding hearts,
    heated blood,
 the suspension of reason—
    I knew I could pray.

I knew the visible and the
invisible,
  frightening eyes and teeth, and
things that weren’t all that scary—
canyons and oceans,
hopefulness, love, kindness,
  and being held among the stars—
I knew all that when my mother
first held me at her breast.

Music lifted me thousands of times,
carried me on its harmonies,
  propelled by its rhythms—
and there gratitude and humility,
   romance, children, brothers, and friends;
  the patience to listen,
  pushing limits and pushing back.
I have fallen often.
   Beethoven and Nielsen saved me from
  madness.

Before I was born,
 I saw an entire universe
made of Mystery.
The soul has its own eyes
   that sees what our light filled eyes
cannot see.
This is fair, is it not?
Aren’t we born to be seekers
      of light we cannot see?

I can still hear the music I heard
from before my time in the
womb.

Wherever there is music,
   there is Prayer.