When our children finally come
Fresh burdened with grief’s duties
To sort and pack the debris of our lives,
They will find the book, the aging book,
The tedious book of English lit.
And without us there to give it testimony
It will go to charity, or be tossed on the heap.
They will not see the young lovers we were
On a blanket, on a spring-laced hillside;
They will not hear me reading sonnets of love
Nor see you smiling with sparkling blue eyes.
Or again, they will not know those days of recovery
When your sinuses were packed with gauze and pain.
And then, how I read you verses of nature
By poets long removed from pain, and life.
They might, perhaps, pause in their purging
To open its covers and see our notations;
The way we did when packing to move,
When the book, the aging schoolbook,
Brought our flurry to a tender halt.
And again, we relished the familiar lines
Of iambic pentameter, or lilting prose.
There is much in life that cannot be kept.
Which is why we send these moments ahead,
Boxed for our eternity, our poetry of life.
Taylor-made Reflections 
Stephen and Cynthia: I miss you already.
Beautiful. I am the child you speak of in your musings on this “moving morning”, going through my mother’s papers, letters, clippings. It is bittersweet – sweet in my feelings of closeness to her, yet sad that I cannot ask about some of the things I don’t understand. Children have but a limited view on their parents’ young lives. I know I have my secrets.
Thank you for sharing this sweetness. Willa
Thank you Willa. We share a belief that in Christ we will know our loved ones again. And there we will not be limited by memory loss or the distance that passing time forces on us. The joy of shared lives will not compare to the glory of Christ, but it will be an added grace.
We send with you many blessings and our love will follow you…..
Stephen!! LOVE this…
Love this, Stephen…you have such a gift for prose and perspective. Hope to ride over to see you maybe this week….love you and Cynthia…Love, your favorite sister.