Mother, I’m letting go.
It’s what you did a year ago
Now I know how, I swear
Walking so long in the dark, I arrived
To this now.
I don’t have to tell you
The forces that were my life,
You know.

You who could describe the moon
With so much care
And spoke everything – but not of your fear of dying
You knew why flowers grew on grass
To say, “I’m born”
Or that they might spring from crevices of rock to dance with the wind.
Sometimes your words split darkness the way you crack open a rock
Nothing diminished or unseen.
Like the time we described the good and happy life of a friend
And you said, “I know, I know, but he’s a hurt person.”
He’ll never know how you saw into him.
What Thoreau said he longed to do, you did –
Speak “first thoughts,”
While ours lay like cocoons spread in confusion

You never said the reasons for failure – why we get lost
Only that we are, and whether your thoughts spilled like butterflies into air
Or cut like an axe
You never lost the knowledge of center
That the failure to love ourselves deeply enough
Is more or less fatal

Let me feel the attention you gave
To this world.
(Were you afraid of dying in case what came afterwards took less?)
With the same care you gave all along.
Safe with yourself.
I’m turning now to that shore.

–Constance Greenleaf

Bits of this were bouncing around in my head as I watched this scene, but it took a happy accident yesterday for me to come across the complete poem. It feels presumptuous to think I know anything of what was going through Lynne’s mind that day on the anniversary of her mom’s passing, but I liked the spirit of this poem, anyway, and was very touched by Lynne’s trust in sharing some of her grief with us.

Hugs to you, Lynne.