The month is May, and I am the matriarch.
A family not without heartache, not without joy.
Roots entangled, branches reaching,
I never stop searching.
My joys may be common, my heartaches unique.
(Probably wrong, so often wrong.)
My son died too young,
The age of our Savior
When blinded by God,
Bowing to Majesty, palm touching palm.
Blessings to give and blessings to take.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour . . .
My daughter plummeted
Not without heartache, not without joy,
With a mind fearful muddled
And blind to her losses,
Leaving pain in its wake (and she chooses the wake).
Me the repository,
I am the matriarch.
Secrets solved but remembered.
Bravery and love. Bravery and love.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us . . .
Our grandson is living this summer with us.
I am full,
More full than I pictured this sweet month of May.
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