Although a daughter, I write this as a mother.
We’re both mothers now, of child-daughters:
You, a grandmother forced to be a mother,
And I, a widow, alone with my fatherless daughter.
Death has thus shaped both our lives in ways
We would not have chosen. Yet life is still the bright,
Painfully lovely thing it was always:
Our children like dancers on a dark, splendid night,
Needing our loves as I needed yours; your love
The same song as ever, a lullaby I remember
So well from my time in your arms. We move
In slow spirals towards the stars. September
Has weeks like June, yet is closer to the fall.
Love has no answers, yet its beauty answers all.

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