Memory of mom

I have countless memories of my mom, far too numerous to list here. My final memory of her was during her transition. Local relatives kept vigil, knowing her time was drawing near. Soft music played in the background as I read each Tuesday night prayer from her three cherished prayer books. This tradition began while she was in the hospital and continued when she returned home.

The last piece I recited to my mom before her passing was "Daisies" by one of her favorite poets, Mary Oliver. It was fitting, as Kaitlin reminded me, because daisies were among the flowers my mom had requested for her memorial service.

Words held deep significance for my mom; she seldom spoke without careful consideration. Here is the poem I read when she passed:

It is possible, I suppose, that sometime

we will learn everything

there is to learn: what the world is, for example,

and what it means. I think this as I am crossing

from one field to another, in summer, and the

mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either

knows enough already or knows enough to be

perfectly content not knowing. Song being born

of quest he knows this: he must turn silent

were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead

oh hear his wild caustic, tender warbling, ceaselessly

unanswered. At my feet the white-petaled daisies displayed

the small suns of their center-piece, their-if you don't

mind my saying so-their hearts. Of course

I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and

narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know.

But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,

to see what is plain; what the sun

lights up willingly; for example- I think this

as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch-

the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the

daisies for the field.