Elizabeth Catherine Wilson - In Memoriam PDF Print E-mail
Fiction/Poetry
Written by Nathan D. Wilson   
Tuesday, 19 October 2010 11:06

The hole has been dug and filled. The sod mounds where we placed you, well out of the shade, crowning the hill. You did not belong in a valley.  You are gone, as gone as anyone can be, but I will not grieve for you selfishly.

I hope.

Death came slowly here, disguised as age, creeping up over decades and only you seemed to believe it was coming. You smelled it. You promised the rest of us, and we laughed. You were like a child, insisting that you had grown—that four was big, that six, that ten was as old and aged as anyone could be. And still more years came.

But now you have grown. You are where you have always wanted to be. And we are here, after decades of your warnings, somehow still surprised at death’s arrival.

You were the soul of the yellow house on Howard. You were the wry fire that kept its insides warm. I climbed in your apple trees and in your walls, and you plied me with toffees and half-smiling quips. You were and are mother to my father—the tree from which apples fell and grew from which apples fell and grew from which apples now fall and grow. You are gone from this orchard, but I and my sisters and cousins and many others will grow on, pointing toward the Sun you showed us. We will live—and we will die—in Christ, thankful that He placed us downstream in the river of your human grace.



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Last Updated on Tuesday, 19 October 2010 14:25