Deirdre Neilen, PhD: Poet Nancy Christopherson captures a particular generation and its style in her lovely poem "Dearfoams." A mother and daughter walk the carefully tended grounds of the nursing home, happy to be together outside, accepting all that is given.
"Dearfoams"
We are meant to suffer
so that by the time the suffering
eases, we can no longer feel it as such
and it seems like nothing less
than the highest form
of praise.
That's how I'd put it.
The two of us walking the grounds outside
the nursing home along the smooth
paved sidewalk well beyond the high rise,
apartments built for retirees.
A few ash trees, some maples,
some lovely dense azaleas, boxwood along
the edges, and flowers in pots
on balconies, their doors slid open, screens
exposed on the windows.
Happy, relaxing days near the end.
Mom with her softly slippered feet
padding alongside my sneakered ones
holding my hand and
gazing around at all the marvelous
wonders, saying not one word
but two, mahvalous dahling, in her tiny
size 6 ivory Dearfoams.
Her hair by then
pure-as-a-seagull's-wing white.
