The Face In the Mirror

Florence "Floss" Fitzsimmons,

one of the farm girls in her area

to ride for pleasure

and Monte

For years, I have been watching

my grandmother's face

emerging before me

in my mirror.

My grandmother's eyes

are looking out of my face.

They know me.

I remember walking beside her,

as a child, in the cemetery, 

when her thoughts were on dying,

when she said how peaceful

it was there,

and how angry I was,

that she could even think

of leaving me.

She did, years later,
and I assisted that passage,

one solitary tear 
rolling down her cheek,

when I thanked her

for all the love.

She visited me,

on my way home
from the funeral,

Galway Bay tinkling in

one side of my head and out the other,

as I quickly thought: 

"Bye, Grandma, I love you",

as the notes tinkled out and away.

Then came the years 

when an elfin granddaughter

walked beside me, looking up

and I was the grandmother
in my turn,

and that vast peaceful knowing

that lived in my grandmother's heart

came to reside within me.

I think about 

the love and connection

in that long line

of strong women

who walked here before me,

and the line of strong women 

who will walk here behind me,

for the circle of love

that is endless,

for the cycle of life

that keeps turning and turning,

one grandmother out,

one granddaughter in,

footsteps following footsteps,

heart upon heart,

all the way Home. 

Kids, this is adapted from a poem I wrote earlier, called The Grandmother Song. I took it in a new direction and re-wrote it for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif: Mirrors. It was either this or a rant by Wild Woman about caricatures (which I actually might have rather enjoyed. I may still do it! Cackle.)

WILD WOMAN LOOKS IN THE MIRROR

It is all there,
undeniably:
jowls and Terrible Hair
and bald eyelids:
Wild Woman as Caricature
of her younger self.

It is a travesty of justice
one can do nothing about.
The Court of Last Appeal
is one she is not ready to visit
just yet.

Wild Woman favors soft lighting
and cheval glass.
With an image
all beveled and warped,
she gains a much softer,
gentler perspective
on what exactly age does
to the aging.
She pretends
it is the Fun Mirror
at the circus,
and laughs just the way
that she did then,
at the reflected image.

She is okay with it,
because she is
still breathing.
And cackling.
And, blessedly,
she doesnt really care,
any more,
so she doesnt need
to look in mirrors
very often .
Only to make sure
her eyes
still line up.