I knew you from childhood:

the lanky, laughing preacher’s wife,

mother of my cousins,

a pleasant, distant presence

in my world of hide-and-seek and fireflies.

 

I knew you, but only as a child knows,

looking up.

 

Then I was thirty-five.

You, fifty-seven.

You stepped through the doorway

of my father’s hospital room.

“Who is this?” I thought.

You wore a plain blue suit,

the dash of red lipstick, an afterthought

on a face otherwise unadorned.

Then, I recognized the short white hair,

as white as it had been among the fireflies

when you shouted. “Children, time to come in.”

 

We met

woman to woman,

eye to eye

across the waning body of this man we loved

so well.

 

“Your Daddy was so good to me,” you said.

“He took me to the county fair,

me, just me, leaving the four older sisters at home,

puffing with envy.”

 

And so began the

Gift of Hours,

The two of us in

Timeless Space,

opening our stories to each other,

woman to woman,

eye to eye.

 

You knew so much.

A nurse since World War II,

you spoke to the legion of doctors with

firm, gentle authority,

“Are we trying to cure him, or are we trying

to make him comfortable?”

They met your eyes,

bowing to your wisdom.

 

“So this is what it looks like, “ I thought,

“To know oneself,

to reveal oneself with surety and grace.”

Could I aspire to this as well?

 

You noticed.

Oh, Lord, you noticed.

You could see the question in my

hungry eyes.

 

As Daddy slept, breathing deeply,

comfortable at last,

we talked.

 

There was, we discovered,

so much to talk about.

Whatever picture I had of you from childhood

melted in the reality of your thoughtful presence,

your easy laugh,

the wonder of your original mind.

 

Sitting across from me in the cafeteria,

you crunched your tuna sandwich,

in no hurry,

asking me what I thought,

so curious

about my original mind.

 

We had so many passions

(the role of women, the nature of power in the world, a fascination with consciousness, the mystery of faith…)

We talked so freely,

with no husbands, or brothers, or bosses to issue

contradictions,

(though you would later say, “Men just have to do things

a certain way”, cautioning me against judgment )

 

That week, my soul found a home in yours.

 

Now, I am sixty-three,

You, eighty-five.

My heart is filled with gratitude,

with joy, with love.

I see you,

woman to woman,

eye to eye,

knowing

all that you are,

all that I, through you,  have come to be.

 

 

For Doris

By Betsy, aka Elizabeth Clark-Stern

May, 2012