My brother-in-law, Lee, is an artist, a caricaturist, a writer, a handyman, a father, and the Recyclone in days gone by. He’s also a poet. On Monday he realized that he had missed his mother’s (pictured above with his daughter MacKenzie) 82nd birthday and so did what all kids do in a pinch. He self-crafted a gift, this time in the form of one of his famous poems. (He’s also famous for his popsicle stick birdhouses, on-the-spot caricatures, and homemade cards that put Hallmark to shame.)
This piece was particularly poignant for me because his mother has Alzheimer’s. Thus ‘home’ means something different than it used to and gathered memories are slipping away. Both of these losses are only in the traditional sense though. The essence of those memories, that is, the core of the people that were shaped by those memories, remains solid. And home becomes an internal existence rather than a place to go to. And every day, with each quiet conversation, the cup gets refilled.
Spending Time, by Lee Sauer
Summer shade and winter warmth
Kitchen aromas that welcome us home,
wherever home might be
Sitting by a window
and looking out
Just looking
Quiet conversation
about everything,
about nothing
So many memories
Pennies from a lifetime
Not worth much alone,
but gathered together and invested, a fortune
Another year
Another birthday
Can I fill your cup?
