Dreams–dVerse Haibun Monday


On the bookcase, behind her, a photo showcases a twenty-year-old brunette—slim, shapely, with a mane of brunette hair cascading over her shoulders. She leans against the right fender of a 1930’s rag-top. Behind her sits her 1st Lt. Army Air Corps finance, wearing the uniform that would take him to the European theater—her fly-boy, B-24 pilot. There, he would die.

Today, she stares over her glasses, the clouded irises of her eyes registering little but confusion, the once-smooth surface of her skin bearing ravages of the many losses that have dogged her throughout her lifetime. “Are you happy?” she asks for the 17th time in the last couple of hours. I answer, “Yes, Mom, I’m happy. You don’t need to worry about me.”

I return my gaze to that photo, so full of youthful hope and happiness. Yes, Mom, all is well. You can move on when you’re ready, I think. I’ve told her that before.

For her part, she has dosed off again, perhaps returning to those dreams of years long-gone.

clearing out dead leaves
unearth patterns of remains
lace-knit life forms


Photo: Susan Judd, Used with Permission

Thank you to Susan Judd for allowing us to use her wonderful photography to inspire us today in writing to dVerse Monday Haibun prompt: beauty in decay. And thank you to Bjorn, for inviting Susan.


Never Forget You are My Little Girl–dVerse Poetics

My Mother: Family Archives Christmas 2014

My Mother: Family Archives
Christmas 2014

I Will Never Forget
A Modified Trimeric

The way the sunlight played across your face,
the words you always had to comfort me,
the silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
the smile, the gratitude and grace.

Those words you always had to comfort me,
when darkness threatened to seep in, destroy—
I think of these and find the courage to go on.

Your silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
your touch, just so, to heal or to correct.
This quiet, heavy–touch, beyond my reach.

Your smile, your gratitude and grace—
Do these endure in shadows of your mind?
Although you’re here, you are no longer you.

Yet, sunlight plays forever on your face.
Each day you tell me never to forget
that I will always be your little girl.

Today for dVerse Poetics, we are asked to remember someone we have lost. This is addressed to my dear 95-year-old mother who suffers from ever-increasing dementia. She has always been my best friend. Even though we have spent most of our lives at a geographical disadvantage, she was there for me. I still call her, every day or two or three. The conversation is the same. If I try to tell her something off-script, she cannot follow it, But one thing she says to me each and every time is this: “Never forget you are my little girl.”

Those of you who have dealt with dementia, as I have my entire life as a nurse, understand the we lose our loved one an inch at a time. And yet, the wonder is this–somewhere inside is that person who always was, imprisoned, so to speak and totally living in the present moment. It is our job to provide them with one pleasant moment at a time.

Please join us today at dVerse.