The weekend passed slowly and quietly as they sometimes do.
I found myself lost in memories and longed for a time gone by.
I remembered an old suitcase that I had carried from one destination to the next.
As I, this gypsy woman moved from
situation to situation.
I sat alone in the large room with the high ceilings and wooden floors
that others had once called their home and now was mine.
I settled on the floor and unfastened the antique straps to see what lay inside.
There were no jewels and there were no coins
But the treasures began to unfold.
I discovered pieces of my childhood
as well as other cherished children
that my parents had loved.
I found tattered paper with the art of those children,
words they had innocently prosed.
Letters of love from my father to my mother,
Little handprints copied keeping us forever young.
I learned some of my sisters' loves as a child
and later as a woman wanting to come back home.
I was lonely that weekend and needed a good cry
to let me remember that I could still feel.
Away from my family and mourning the loss
of times we'd shared
disconnected and weary
I found a comfort and a sense of those memories coming alive.
I knew from the time I was a child
how blessed we were my family and I.
I knew the love I would forever carry and share.
I knew without words how deep that love ran.
But before I replaced the treasures I had found
I noticed an old wallet with something inside.
I removed the small clippings that were almost parched.
I found the tenderness my father had always
kept near to his heart.
Newspaper clippings with words from Browning.
I found assurance of his inward faith.
I found the love he gave to each of us
without saying a word
or putting pen to hand
I found my father was a poet
deep in his own thoughts
I cried those tears I needed to cry
not out of lonlieness or fear
but tears of pride
for that poet
that loving soul.
And although he's been gone from me for
a very long time
Those decades are echoes
that will keep his voice alive,
Without saying a word.
