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Description
I was given your hair at birth and your round, broad hips at thirteen.
At five you gave me your little white shall, last piece of home.
I thought it angelic but bland.

You don't have a face anymore, but a pair of long aged, wind worn hands
that with my great joy you pulled me onto your lap and spake.
That accent, deep true heritage that I, removed, have missed.

You died I buried my favorite stuffed cat beneath the red blue green blocks
that would become the hovel of a rabbit years ahead.
Death and life entwined by love and literal location.

You are constructed out of bits of twine and family pride,
left your world to find what would be mine and the image is blurred by age.
Alone in time, you cross the waters endlessly in my mind.

You taught me love in two words that I did not know until years later
and the discovery brought me to tears because you trusted me with this secret.
Graim thu, Marie. Don't ever lose your home.