I Will Remember

Beyond the mumbling and the whining days,

these bedridden, trapped and powerless days,

I will remember—

the cookies, fresh-baked,

pink curlers in the hair,

a wet washcloth planted on your head, weeding vegetables under the hot summer sun.  I will remember

the harmony at the old upright, laughter and tears,

coloring books at Christmas—and fresh, brand spanking new crayons—and

flannel nighties and egg candling, flyswatter swats, and evening strolls with Dad.

I will remember lawn chairs and your snowball trees exploding white,

welcomes home and sad goodbyes,

flaky pie crusts, blueberry picking, and laundry flapping in the breeze.

Egg routes, choir songs, chiropractor, and 4-H,

and Scrabble,

Sunday School lessons and shotgun shells, hushed conversations and prayers in bed in the night, and

sickness, wellness, and church books past midnight, finding that one lost penny, and I will remember.

Beyond the days of diminished body and mind, what you were

and are,

somewhere still in this failing flesh,

the history, the love, the sacrifice, the gifting, and the stories,

I will remember.