I'm not going to bother with a Year in Review post this week. You all know my mom died, and that pretty much sums it up.
I had thought about writing a review of the 2011 Deer Season--which was a lot better for my family than the year as a whole--but the season doesn't end until January 7. So I'll be optimistic and wait on that.
I will, however, leave you with something I found in my basement yesterday. It's a poem my mom wrote. I'd seen it before and actually wanted to read it at her memorial service back in October, but I couldn't locate it at the time. So that this untitled work doesn't get lost again, I'll preserve it here:
Travelling west toward the Blue Ridge,
In traffic, slowing,
The fading light in a narrow strip of pink and orange,
Behind the bare tree branches,
Sharp and lacy against the delicate cold sky.
NPR on the radio, All Things Considered,
A voice begins to read Goodnight Moon.
Not from Goodnight Moon,
You understand, but the whole book,
To commuters in their cars.
I was one of them, enthralled,
Lulled by the quiet well-known words,
Once read to us, or by us,
To our children.
Goodnight to the mouse, goodnight to the house,
Goodnight to the stars, to the balloon,
Goodnight to the moon.
Goodnight to the world.
Quietly we moved westward toward home.
Listeners were angry. They sent curt letters.
Wasting our time! What were you thinking?
We expect substance, not a baby story.
That doesn’t even make sense.
But how quietly we moved westward,
Toward Home.
Judy Coughlin; April 8 1947-September 26, 2011
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