CHILDREN I’VE MET IN GEORGETOWN

It is not that I hear their voices

when visiting Georgetown’s cemetery.

It is as though I see their auras,

feel their presence in ways not scary.

The boundless energy of a four year old

lying still there in her grave

has not been fully stifled.

Her essence angels save.

The baby boy under that tall pine

ever watches for his mom.

You sense his trepidation,

and back off until he is calm.

Most children in these beloved old sites

died long before their folks,

many who left for less harsh surroundings

carrying their grief beneath their cloaks.

The wind blows wickedly in those steep hills;

The air so often cold.

I imagine these little ones ‘sweet voices singing,

while their fathers searched for gold.

Praise and thanksgiving to the God of my Catholic father’s father and my Methodist mother’s mom.

The sun is warm, streaming through the back glass storm door.

The coffee is fresh and cooling as it sits near my elbow calling my name…”drink me, drink me!”

The day is mine; the grass greens and thickens, the chickadees fight the finches for a spot on the feeder while the neighbor cat eyes them from my front stoop, which she assumes is hers.

The “news” is on for company, but I’m not actually listening…who are these people to tell me what to think about what is occurring in the world? Not one of them would I know on the street to say hi…no one with whom I would share my sandwich.

It feels good – the heat from the sun, the coolness of the air, a fresh, deep breath…the stretch of the day before me.

Time to stop with the e-scribbling for the day. I finished the coffee (Nespresso Vanilla Custard Pie, mmm), so now will hit the laundry, attack the remaining black rocks piled in the front yard, and play some rockin’ music to celebrate a new month and all it promises.

Life Is Good…for sure.