A shot glass you once held and gave
to us – a souvenir
on display since you
at parties among gin – scotch - whiskey
there - a Schlitz shot glass
peers at us with eyes unseen.
A simple token of you brings back
laughter – stories - tales of when you
too were here embracing life -
it was this glass we brought -
I told you while I talked to you on
the back porch, asking,
“Please show us you are here, tonight?”
It was a week before - broken mirrors -
not knowing why two broke into
smithereens - then a glass moved -
moved dust - a clean circle,
we knew it was you.
You planed the meeting, a chance
some people take – to hear a loved
one who left so long ago – it was
you who told me to place a shot
glass inside my purse – so that night
on our porch I asked you to please
give us a sign – to know you have
been here with us, through life for all
we sit among all who prayed to
themselves to be chosen – but was
it all our words – our talks
before you passed away? When
you told me you would be here -
you would show me so, all my life
it was the same, I will return, I will
be watching over you – so you have
we all know it – we have all seen it
since that cold windy March day
when you passed away.
I knew you were listening – I knew
you were following my steps.
Everyone sat, hoping they would be
chosen; first a child came through
as an entire family began to weep.
Words spoken like a child – what she
held inside a coffin – what she
wore to sleep – who was the last
one to hold her hand. . .
Next - a woman deep in depression –
another needing surgery – and
finally the girl in the blue blouse -
our eye’s connected.
She said, “I see two – a paternal
Grandmother pushing to be heard
first and your mother – holding
a baby in her arms.”
Every word connected us – but
when she held up her hand and
said, “Your mother is
talking about a little glass” my
husband nearly collapsed.
Then said, “The mirrors –
she didn’t break the expensive one…”
it was true, it slid down the bedroom
wall - but how would she know
I soaked my feet for one week in
front of our television? She said,
"Your mother wants you to know you
don't need to soak your feet, you only
need better shoes."
Mother’s words continued and
she wasn’t missing a thing or making
a mistake, everything was too personal
and too secret for anyone but my
mother to see.
Now I know for sure your
with me – between us as we
ride – you said so, knowing I
do not drive. . .
you told us you were listening
whenever I rode in the car.
Remember a good luck plant – a
stranger, a nice old man
gave me – Irish Shamrocks -
on Mothers Day.
So we continue – we communicate
without words – your love is so
strong it is as if we looked eye to eye.
Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
NOTE: Read – No One Came To Visit
which will explain a great deal about
this very poem. Thanks.