Karin Thorsen

September 17, 1936 – November 8, 2008

Because you are
only
a seed,
chestnut tree, autumn, earth,
water, heights, silence
prepared the germ,
the floury density,
the maternal eyelids
that buried will again
open toward the heights
the simple majesty of foliage,
the dark damp plan
of new roots,
the ancient but new dimensions
of another chestnut tree in the earth.

From Pablo Neruda, Ode to a Chestnut on the Ground

—

Oh how I love you, Mamma.  As I grow older, as I grow old, I see you more and more in my face, in my body.  I welcome each sag, each wrinkle, each change in my bones.  Your fingers are my fingers (on my right hand), your laugh is mine (and the parrot’s), your worn out recipe book has butter and flour stains and its heart beats loudly.  I no longer pursue your dreams on your behalf.  I pursue mine as you truly always wanted me to do.   You feared to lose me, but you never did.  And as I become more and more myself, I become more and more your love.  Look at the legacy you created.