All of us are pieces of our past; the people and experiences
The people who once walked in my life
left footprints on a sturdy floor.
They send ripples through my soul
like gentle waves wash upon a shore.
My Grandma, Irene, died when I was young.
A gentle angel; her legacy also spoke of an Irish jig.
Like Grandpa’s roses, she was a tender blossom.
She told delightful tales after a little swig.
My Grandpa was gardening at ninety-five.
A favorite memory was Santa Claus, in the Dutch way.
Wooden shoes were stuffed with candy and toys.
Laughter filled the house, his belly would shook and sway.
My Dad makes my eyes tear and heart smile.
He was both sturdy and soft.
Broken hearts, he glued back.
I dream he whistles making angel lofts.
My husband for twenty years died a year ago,
a good father and friend.
We had two children, lots of joy and love.
Memories outlast a painful parting at the end.
The echoes in my heart are made
by special people that shared my Earthly stay.
They spent some time and left a piece of themselves,
shaping the person that I am today.
By Kathie Stehr