Memories of my mother…

We all leave an imprint on the earth. My mother’s imprint is her garden. Her garden wasn’t just a plot of ground where she grew fruits and vegetables. It was her sanctuary, and a moment in time to be alone. Some say that plants have feelings and memories. I’m certain my mother experienced that phenomenon, as I can recall her speaking to her plants in a loving tone. Her garden at times was an escape from life, and often the rigors of raising four kids. Four very active kids. My mother loved her garden and the plenty it produced year after year due to her meticulous care. As a family, we ate out of her garden. She seemed to always have a salt shaker nearby as she tended to her garden. Plucking a ripe tomato off the vine without washing it, she would dash a bit of salt on the red fruit and encourage me to take a bite. She was an excellent cook and an expert at stretching the strictest of weekly food budgets. Her garden and everything it produced made the difference between staying within her budget that my father had established. She made the best chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever tasted. To date, I’ve never been able to duplicate them. She often sent a round tin of her amazing cookies to me as part of a care package while I was in college. The popcorn balls she created from scratch were legendary around Halloween. All the while helping me, my brothers, and my sister make and sew our own handmade costumes. None of our costumes was ever store-bought. She was proud of her many medals she was awarded from her high school track meets. My mother was fast on her feet. She’d often catch up to me as I tried to escape her wrath for something I’d done. She was keen on making scrapbooks for all her kids. Memories that would have been lost were it not for her thoughtful efforts. Wherever my mother has landed, I hope there’s a plot of ground where she can continue her lifelong love for nature, her garden, and good health.

The Song of a Passing Heart

The song of a passing heart—what is it exactly? Where is it? How is it produced? I'm not sure, but I surely hear it. I feel it. The song of a passing heart is a melody unknown from any past. It's created. It's new. New to the ears of those left behind. The heart speaks loudly, letting us know we aren't alone. The song of a passing heart passes through space and time. Always present. A call out. A touch without being touched. Movement with no motion. The wind blows, and the song of a passing heart is felt. Always present.

Be gone, my lonely heart, drift into the unknown, and don't be afraid, for wherever your journey takes you, I will hear you calling me. The song of your passing heart will always be with me, and I with you.

~Paul Rega