Marvelous Dah'ling

My memories of Mamie 

are not defined by one moment,

but a string of glistening continuity. 

A delicate vibration of grace and poise. 

A strand of pearls that can't be broken, only left clasped and circling in our memories.

When we would go skiing 

Mamie wouldn't need to cut hard into the snow 

with the sharp edges of her skis, 

it was effortless, 

- or seemed so, 

how she would let the snow 

cradle her skis from left to right down that bunny hill,

which gently set her in front of the lift.

- like a dog placing a ball at your feet,

as if the mountain was having as much fun as she was,
and was begging her for another go.  

When she would find herself in the lake, 

too deep to touch, 

the water would gather itself under her cupped hands 

to keep her hair a safe distance from getting wet. 

Never losing her breath, 

we would carry on a conversation 

treading water until my lack of practice forced me to relent. 

And when I'd give her front door a brief knock 

before swinging it open and traipsing in,

I knew i'd soon hear two soft notes. 

A beacon for her location in the house. 

And the warmest "please come in" never spoken.

It was her attention to detail: 

The place-mats and appetizers at dinner. 

How our napkins were perfectly rolled, 

and the ceramic eggs in the centerpiece 

were intentionally placed to show their unique and beautiful features. 

The slow and deliberate way she would tell a joke.

How she rotated her artwork and tended her gardens. 

How she cut a grapefruit and poached an egg.

How she would sign my birthday cards. 

And just like everything else, 

it seemed she had a hand 

in how the roots of the tree to her life were perfectly placed. 

Never to provide more efficiency or effectiveness, 

but for beauty, 

for elegant growth, 

for marveling eyes. 

I know I've caught myself marveling. 

And thanks to her graceful outward self expression 

in her art and in her words, 

I hope to never stop marveling. 

Neither will my daughter. 

Neither will her children. 

And this is my Mamie. 

I look up at her art on my walls 

and sense a delicate, willowy comfort 

still lingering in the room. 

I hear the quiet jingle of her bangles. 

I feel the warmth of her company. 

And i revel knowing, 

that with a glance,

it's not something I'll never get to feel again. 

- Jordan R Shaver 10/3/2015