Easter Weekend at the Texas Baby Boomer House

Glass of white wine for happy hour,

Glass of red for dinner,

Because we like to double fist it

On holiday weekends.

Mom makes me King Salmon from Alaska

and egg roles or crab cakes. She knows my favorites.

Dad buys fine wine

Because he’s glad to have me home.

I look at him, see a male image of me

34 years older. It bodes well for my future.

Blue eyes wizened with age, streaks of silver in

Brown curls, but still a lot of me there.

With mom, it’s the eyes and nose shape.

They’re aging, but still young at heart.

They laugh and smile at stories of my grad

School friends. They remember, sometimes wish

They were still there.


On cloudy Texas afternoons when I can

Smell the rain coming in,

I walk to my water fall,

My place of peace, the place where the

Water falls into the stream, and I am reminded

That there’s a natural rhythm to life, a purpose.

Not all goes as planned sure, and disappointment

Makes his nasty appearance, like the wrinkles

Under my still young eyes that I cover with a small

Amount of “concealer” make-up.

Disappointment might win battles,

But He won’t win the war. The waterfall

Gives me peace, the strength to go on,

To keep writing my own story while reading

Those of my friends.  


Home from the walk, Mom makes

Me coffee from central market,

The place of fresh food.

I pour my cream, hear the spoon clank

On the coffee cup,

Sit outside on the overcast

Porch to write my poems, slap

The bugs as they try to suck my blood.

I wonder about the future, but no longer

Worry. Mom and Dad met in the summer of

1967, their summer of love. They were just

kids; Mom was still a teenager. I’m sure then

They never knew they’d be in Texas

Twenty-something years later. They thought they’d live

In North Carolina forever, maybe, not Europe, then

Savannah, then Michigan, then Georgia, then off

To Texas they went.

They went where the tide of live took them,

Open to the pull of the water’s current.

They knew there was a reason,

Even though we didn’t walk into a church

Building or a synagogue this holy weekend.


To me, water is always holy.

It reminds me that the real meaning of Easter

Is rebirth.  


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s