If the writer
observes the world
then the artist
recreates it
and the poet
preserves it all
Knowing yesterday was a milestone anniversary of my father’s death, a friend created this digital image as a gift. She took lines from one of my blog posts, Fresh-cut grass, written in his memory: Grass, though cut, always heals itself and grows again, and you are always present in that sweet scent. She used pictures in my posts to make the grass…here in these blades are slices of my first Christmas, the cross necklace my father gave me, a portion of his Air Force uniform, and a lamppost like the one that stood in the yard of my childhood home; my father used say that when he turned onto the street he could see the light of home shining straight ahead.
I’m in awe of the gift and its artistry.
A metaphor for life itself.
My father’s presence remains in the scent of fresh-cut grass. Here is Sunday’s poem, marking the twentieth year of his passing: September, When Grass Was Green.
*******
with thanks to E. Johnson for the digital masterpiece and to Two Writing Teachers for the original impetus to start a blog for capturing Slices of Life. I began by writing each Tuesday in April 2016, then every day each March, then for Spiritual Journeys on the first Thursday of each month, and on occasion for other writing communities like SOS— Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog…and every day thus far in the year 2022.
If you are reading…thank you.
We are our stories. Let us write them and live them well. And bring healing to one another.
lit bits and pieces 
That is truly a moving, inspired gift from a profoundly insightful person. You must feel blessed to have such a friend. Long live the memory of your father.
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A precious gift . Thank you for sharing.
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Wow. What a friend…but she had wonderful inspiration…as did you. I love that poem, and to use your photos for the blades of grass is such an incredible pairing with your metaphor. Just a meaningful wow on a meaningful day.
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You are always so gracious – I so appreciate your words!
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I am in awe of this piece of art, and of the poems both within and outside of the photo. I remember when you started your poetry journey, your hesitation, and here you are, expressing oceans in small puddles of words.
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What a thoughtful and creative gift! So touching that your friend would make this for you for a day you needed it most.
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Fran, my heart is crying tears of joy and love! This is beautiful, and I love the way the blades of grass hold the photos of such meaningful things. What a sweet, touching gift. It just has layers and layers of love.
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Beautiful gifts… your friend’s creation, your father’s life, your poignant memories. Moments of love and grief, heartbeats of life.
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Some gift. Some writer. Some friend. Exquisite. Inspiring. Lovely. From the heart. Remembering our dads is its own preciousness.
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Fran,
This tribute from friend to you and from you to your father touches my heart in their beauty. Today is the 47th anniversary of my father’s death. Even in the newness of autumn’s arrival signaling the end of summer and dying that accompanies it, there is grass living and regenerating memories. Z thank you for sharing the gorgeous art, both yours and your friend’s.
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I recall reading your poems about your father, Glenda – also poignant and beautiful. My dad died suddenly at what should have been one of the most celebratory times of life, retirement… he had just three days to go. So many layers of loss, some of which I’ve never written. At the time, rage engulfed me – too big for words. All these years later the anger is gone, yet the sharp-edge of memory still cuts, even when tempered by gratitude. Somehow I think you understand – I am grateful for that and for you.
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Fran,
My father was young—39—when he died. He didn’t really have a career, but before his blindness he had deep friendships. I told my brother last week how everyone abandoned him in time: his friends, his family, our church. My brother rags on me about not going to church, but I don’t think he’d ever realized how alone all these people left our father. I was so angry in those days. Still am when certain topics arise. So, yes, I do understand the rage, and all the competing emotions.
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Glenda, I didn’t realize how young your dad was when he died. The thought of his being abandoned in the time of his greatest need is heartbreaking. Searing. I understand scars of deep disappointments, especially those inflicted by people who ought to have been a comfort, a shelter, a help, a balm…My dad, as it turned out, to my surprise, was the glue that kept our family together; it all came apart after his death. There are layers of loss, disappointment, emotions that I’ve yet to write about. Time, like a cushion, has provided a safe distance; not sure I want to remove it. I deal with the coils when I feel them… know how much I appreciate your words. You remind me that there’s strength in vulnerability.
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This is an absolutely beautiful and precious gift from your dear friend. I love your line, which your friend captured in visual art, “you are always present in that sweet scent” – so very dear.
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What a beautiful piece of artwork with pieces of your words and mementos of your dad. Truly priceless. Thank you for sharing.
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What a beautiful treasure!
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The artwork is amazing. What a treasure of a gift fitting for a treasure of a man as I understand from you power writing.
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