We buried her high atop the Tipton Street hill that day,
The coldest any of us could remember;
Icy splinters tore into our raw faces,
Stinging like the words
That had told us she was gone.
All her life, someone remembered,
She wanted it to snow the day she was buried,
And so we smiled that she had had her way one last time
And braced ourselves against the wind
Blowing through all our houses.
A tribute to a woman who made her presence felt…
Rudy, Yes, indeed! She had no children, but she was certainly a mother figure to her 21 nieces and nephews!
I can feel those “icy splinters” stinging and the wind “blowing through all our houses.”
That was seriously as cold as I have ever been in my life! February in the mountains! I am glad that came across! Thanks!
Love the last line and combination of feelings that comes across in 10 short lines.
Thank you so much, Gaby!
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