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when the lights dim in your head

remember, if you can, my name

and if my name becomes too difficult

remember my face and my smile

and if my face becomes faint

remember my voice and my rhythm

and if my voice becomes distant

remember my hand and my touch

and when the lights go off in your head,

and all else fails

remember my love in the deeps of your silent beating heart.

 It was a cold, cold day when she left us, she took all the light with her, she took all the music with her, she took all the laughter with her,  and we were left cold on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we had to save our drowned hearts, we had to swim against the pressing waters, we had to pull our drenched bodies out, and we remained gasping for breath on that cold, cold day she left us.

It was a cold, cold day when she left us, we looked for her in our hearts, we looked for her in our dreams, we looked for her in our souls.  And we found her there, and there, and there.

And that is where she now lives – in us, always, forever.

‘I held your then little hand and tried to lead, but I kept losing the way.’

‘It’s ok, Mama.  You really were too young to know.’

‘And you know, I really thought I was doing what was best.’

‘I know, Mama.  And you were doing your best.’

‘But you came out fine.’

‘Fine like you, Mama.’

Chairs around the wooden table.  Tablecloth of charming blue elephants.  Purple daisies in a glass vase.  And a simple chicken dinner.

That’s all it is.  A simple chicken dinner.  Made with love.  Served with love.  Shared with love.

It tastes of love.

throw the tooth

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

and ask for a gazelle’s tooth in place of the donkey’s tooth,

behind the sun,

far, far behind the sun,

my Son.

Based on regional folklore, children are told to throw their milk teeth (traditionally nicknamed donkey teeth) behind the sun, and ask the sun to give permanent teeth (traditionally nicknamed gazelle’s teeth) in their place.

Remember when his fingers guided you up the wooden bridge.  His eyes watched you slide down.  His hands caught you on the other end of the bridge.  And carried you back up again and again and again.

Please be easy on him now.

He is still only a boy, only taller.  And you are still his red toy car, only bigger.

‘Mama, am I pretty?’ the little girl asks.

‘Yes, you are.  Prettier than the moon and the stars.  Prettier than the flowers and the butterflies.  Prettier than the rainbows and the clouds.  Prettier than the streams and the pebbles.

Prettier, prettier in my eyes than any, any boy will ever, ever see you.’