Death. Our greatest fear or greatest love? He who steals from us that which we love the most, the people in our lives. And yet, at that moment of our greatest trial he takes us far from where we least want to be: victims of a cruel world, in pain and agony. Once again he has stolen from us one that we care for, but who are we to complain and rant? No one but the dead may find fault with he who takes them from their pain. To a loved one: you will be missed and we sorrow for the loss of your beauty in this world. May you bring joy to those of the next.
I had been preparing this poem for the anniversary of my grandmother’s death, but with this recent news I feel that it is most appropriate here and now.
My head turns at that remembered scent upon the wind,
That tender fragrance of baby powder.
My ears strain to catch the soft rattle of beads,
Her whispers of glorification to our Blessed Mother.
Her wrinkled hands so patient in their work
Belying the iron strength of her hands honed from years of endless trial.
Her indomitable will hidden beneath that gloriously soft smile
Shining eyes that look into mine with such love and tenderness.
But when my eyes meet those of another
Soft blue covered by clouds are not to be found
Only the cold eyes of a stranger answer my welcoming smile.
My soul weeps where my eyes cannot
And I sorrow for the loss.
Death has stolen away his love and I cannot find you again.
Coldness has replaced the warmth of your presence
And once again I am alone in this barren land.
When may I return to your side?
How long must I wait for Death to reap once again?
In silence and endless winter I await
The return of the Reaper of Souls.