Worth Any That Came Before ~ quadrille ~ with audio

/ Ken Gierke / rivrvlogr

Worth Any That Came Before

          65 years ago

One memory lingers,
unwanted, but I hold it close,
nonetheless. One more
moment with you, worth
any that came before
and more than any after.
Your hand in mine,
you lingered, eyes closed
but restless. Then no more,
as you went to meet him.

My mother outlived my father by fifteen years, and she missed him every day she lived without him. On her last day, I spent the afternoon with her. When I went to dinner, my sister stayed by her side, so she was not alone at the end.
They say that writing can be cathartic. That may be true, but sometimes it stirs memories I might wish I never had. But then, those may be the ones I couldn’t live without.

This poem is my response to Quadrille #136: Let’s Linger, the prompt from Linda Lee Lyberg at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word linger in a 44-word poem, with no required meter or rhyme.

 

40 thoughts on “Worth Any That Came Before ~ quadrille ~ with audio”

  7. I think this poem is so true–those bittersweet moments that we don’t want to think about, but also hold onto tightly. It sounds like your mother went peacefully, and that is something to hold on to. The love comes through–yours for her, and hers for your father.

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  8. Awesome writ, KG. I was fortunate (?) enough to be there, holding her hand, when mine passed, too.
    Couldn’t squeeze out a quad (on the road), but hoping to join the poetics later today, if homebound traffic allows.

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  14. Pingback: Bittersweet Sorrow ~ with audio | rivrvlogr

    • Thank you, Grace.
      That photo is very important to me. I think it may have been in a wallet at one time.
      My mother had a few mini-strokes prior to and after my father’s death. As a result, she would have random lapses in judgement. After her death, when my sisters and I were sorting through hundreds of black and white photos in a bureau/dresser drawer, one sister said that she stopped by one day a year or two after my father’s death to find my mother going through that drawer discarding what was no longer relevant. She was confused at first by my sister’s reaction, but realized how right my sister was. I remember a camera (or movie camera) always being present when I was a child, so who knows how many photos were lost.
      During his last 3 or 4 years, my father was enamored with a video camera – like reliving his film days from the late 1950s into the 1970s (I had those converted to digital 6 years ago). I’m finally in the process of converting his compact VHS tapes to digital, myself.
      I have colorized studio photos of my sister and I when I was 2 years old. They almost look like watercolor, and I cherish them. I have the small version that was in my father’s wallet for all of my life. It is so beat up, but I cherish that one above the others.
      Sorry, but I could go on and on. When memories are all that we have, photos are like memories we can hold in our hands.

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    • Thank you, Ingrid. Sometimes, when I write I have a single image in mind. I want the words to be as concise as possible while conveying the scene, so my writing tends to be more spare than flowery. The temptation here was simply to write, “Your hand.” That might be enough for me to relive the moment, but it does nothing for the reader. As poets we don’t just think or consider, we convey. I’m thankful when I can convey enough to receive such a kind comment.

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