Skip to main content

Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
Home
Contents
Biographies
Submissions
Archives
Editors
Contact Us
Publications
Policies

I Find a Faded Photograph of Mother Wrapped in her Red Shawl


 

She is accompanied by the commanding

voices of cardinals, my mother’s royal guards,

as they sit branched in the oak trees.

 

She reappears on the back stoop

at evening, calling to me,

Sandy, time to come home.

 

I performed the ritual of not noticing,

in the long shadows of lingering

light, the fireflies, acolytes of night,

 

were my companions.  Their tiny lamps

created a universe for me—

an enticement to stay awhile longer

 

under the birches, to be my own moon.

Now the vaulted spaces of evenings

have vanished.  So too the fireflies,

 

the red shawl and my mother.

I hear her calling to me—

more urgently now—

 

Come home, Sandy, come home.

 

                                ―Sandra Sidman Larson