As the Anniversary of My Mom’s Death Approaches

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The body remembers.
It keeps tabs and
intuits cycles.
The doing
the feeling
the becoming
all tangled together.
Not unlike last year’s morning glory vines
braided together, now brown
from frost
after frost after
frost.
Whose roots are
plump with green, waiting
while the light
stretches long

About a month before The
date
something shifts inside
of me.
I begin slogging through mindless
tasks.
I can’t stop staring out of
windows.
I never seem to find what I’m looking
for.

On the day of your
memorial service
every bloom was bursting wildly
and, set against the backdrop of
a cobalt sky,
I sort of believed
every last one of us
might break in two.
It strikes me as brilliant now
that you died in Spring.
You left just as the world
was being born again.

Still, my body remembers your
leaving.
You are my moon.
In places deep and important
I feel your pull.
I am full and I
recede.
I come and I
go.
Here, though, is the miracle:
The light is now
spilling deliciously.
All is not lost.

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Holly Grantham
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
Holly Grantham

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