If Roses grow in Heaven
Lord, please pick a bunch for me.
Place them in my Mother’s arms
and tell her they’re from me.
Tell her that I love her and miss her,
and when she turns to smile,
place a kiss upon her cheek
and hold her for awhile.
Because remembering her is easy,
I do it every day,
but there’s an ache within my heart
that will never go away.
I just loved this poem as soon as I read it. I lost my Mum on the 8th November and if there is one thing I would love, it is to give her a hug and know if she is okay so the thought of somebody giving her that hug for me, is really comforting.
Hi, I am so sorry you lost your Mum. That’s a lovely poem and could be changed for any loved one Thank you @charlotte97
Have you ever had a look at the “The Grief Reality” blog as it’s written by two sisters who lost their mum when the were in their late teens.
Sending hugs Shona.
Dear Mary - I heard this in the summer for the first time, and it is really beautiful. Thank you for posting it.
I don’t come on here too often now, but I do think of you often and wonder how you are doing. You are the one who made me think about how lucky I was to have had a long. loving relationship. I remind myself of this constantly and it does offer solace.
I wish you peace and love at Christmas. Heather
My thoughts are with you Mary as your thoughts drift down memory lane and find your Stan waiting once more. Keep your chin up and peace be with you too, xx🌈
The following is from The Smoke Jumper by Nicholas Evans and it’s a favourite of mine:
If I am the first of us to die,
Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving.
There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life,
The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored,
The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing,
The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch,
The knowing,
Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade,
Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand
And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are.
What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the wood where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you,
Be still.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart.
I am not gone but merely walk within you.
I must admit that I have not really been one for poetry, but if I do read a nice poem I try to consider its meaning. I spent last week in the Lake District on a widows holiday organised by embark2. The theme of the holiday was Wordsworth and we walked around the many places in Grasmere where Wordsworth gained inspiration for his poetry, as well as visiting where he lived at Dove Cottage and Rydal Mount. One of his poems “We are Seven” is as relevant to me today as maybe it was when it was written. It’s about a conversation with a young girl who is adamant that there are 7 people in her family, the poet argues that because two of her siblings are dead, there are only 5 in her family because you do not count those who are no longer living. The poem made me think about Joyce, though she is not here, she is always in my thoughts and even today, she still guides me, my thoughts and my actions. I have always thought of Joyce as being “here” though now, through the poem, I realise that others will have their own interpretation of who is here and who is not. I just wander whether this explains why some are happy to talk to me about Joyce and others never seem to talk about her.
I hope and pray that all of you will stay safe.