gallery Memories

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Memories

Sometimes,
I need to return to the place
where the root of my strength is hidden.
A place that was always open.
Open arms open doors
which was it?
I couldn’t seem to tell.
I never thought about it.
I never had to
until the doors shut
and the arms embraced death
like rhizomes grasping the soul of time
embracing the moment
the past passes into tomorrow
allowing this place to remain mine
through meditative glimpses
of hanging, dangling,
swinging, swaying,
growing big and blooming tall
surrounds of green spouts
like the ones from a provenance of life
that allowed for rendezvous’
with walls, and halls
that were filled with
the essence and savor
of smells and tastes of love
that mingled with the timbre
of the breeze from the river
that tickled the trees
rocked the boats
and soothed my mind
like the memorable hum
of the hymn of a soul
that proclaimed
deliverance and celebration.

Often, I unearth this place
revealing the arms
that opened doors
exposing the heart
that made me want to embrace
these treasures
as a child is embraced
by a mother’s womb
and twine them
into the roots of me;
as time unfolds loose strings
of withering sights and sounds
from doors opened by the arms
of one who planted strong rootstocks
of tastes, smells, love, laughter,
stories, songs, smiles, hugs,
tears, and reassurances that
are so tightly embedded in me
that I intrinsically sew them
into the soil of my children’s soul
as they were sewn into mine
opening for them a hidden strength
to be revealed when they seek the solace
of a place that gave them strength
to endure the elements of life.

Written by: Abigail D. Engel
In loving memory of my Grandmother
Opal Marie Blake Gurganus