She of the Sun
For all the sons and daughters whose sources have made way for the sun.
She leaves the doors open
to let the light through,
make way for a breeze,
let the house breathe.
It was as if she knew exactly how the wind blew
so she could summon the scent of home into the rooms.
She draws the curtains to the movements of the sun.
She, daughter of sweet siestas,
sister of Sundays
set to songs of sepia,
immortalized in hums,
merging with the rising
trail of smoke, scent
of finely crafted suppers.
Mother, feeder of my hunger
Reason I am full and always wanting more
Wanting to be more, for her,
from the first step and every step further.
She whispers that I can fly.
She, lap for my naps,
fingers through my pigtails
and braided birthdays.
Fluffing the ruffles of party skirts,
source of rippling laughter.
The one at the end of an afternoon’s run,
arms outstretched, my destination.
Cure to splinters and scratches,
that touch, tender. Kiss on the forehead,
tuck of the blanket after the lullaby. She
stands by. Mother, maker of futures,
guardian of dreams.
She, lady who flips the flaps
of schoolday lunch bags,
quick with ease, sealing for me
a special taste, firm
certainty. Like an embrace
after a heartbreak. She knows,
she whispers: It will all be better.
Like the way a dark hallway is lit by the afternoon,
through the windows, the heavens flood in.
Bringer of light, she draws the curtains.
The doors are open. Still.
The wind blows a cool breeze.
The rooms are as she would please.
Light falls, it rests.
Everything is at ease.
Originally written around four years ago for another friend’s mother’s passing. Revisited and tweaked the verses for another friend’s mother who has made way for the sun.
Hopefully, I will also be able to complete the verses about my own father’s journeys soon. Or whenever the heart and soul would please.