In Memory of Gracie
I thought that you would love this, Mom,
because you once said, as I drove you
over Pinehurst Road and you looked
at the chaparral, “How can God
keep all of this in mind?” And you meant
that it was wonderful and beautiful
every crack in the bark every aspiring
leaf of manzanita turned sideways to the sun.
And because I think that just being outdoors
would thrill you after all that old age
and confinement and solitude
and arthritis and the one-hundred years
of living of which the last ten were
a challenge to us all. And because together
together we would just love the freedom
and the speed and the risk and the downhills
together. And because I want you to know
what I do when I go cycling to know how
much I love it and how the cool wind
feels on face and legs and how a bike
can tip and lean and swoop like a hawk
and you would feel what I could never
exactly tell you about the joy of it
in those effortless moments
just before the downhill
and the turning on the curves I could
go on and on. But I don’t have to
because you’re here and laughing
and crowding in your shrieks and giggles
and the “Watch it!” and “Oh, my God!”
and your face looks forward and intent
on the pleasure of it all the doing it
with me. Your flannel nightgown is
snapping in the wind like a bright flag
in a windy March mid-morning,
like silk robes, like the controlled
feathers of an eagle’s wings,
as if, as if you were an angel like me
and we are in our own particular heaven.