Dear Ghosts

The prompt for Sunday Scribblings is "ghost".

My mother, Pearl Sitzler, just before she became a Sterling.

DEAR GHOSTS
of those I love,
Why are you all so frail, so fragile
Mama but a brief waft of familiar perfume,
Daddy only a delighted chuckle
heard in the distance?
Allen, beloved brother, you come to me
as a scent of wet lawn
and a cooling drift of sprinkler spray
on a sweltering summer day.
Pooch, could that be you,
that fleeting glimpse of brown
the restless stir in the tall grasses?
Jeannie, I heard your voice at Christmas
soaring above the others
as they sang “Oh, Holy Night”.

I have memories, of course,
books and boxes crammed with snapshots
and old letters.
But memories are not ghosts,
not the sudden sense of presence
however brief.

Dear ghosts, why are you
so frail
so shy
so fragile?

December memories

Memories in the making -
Our son Otto, Grandson Joe, Great-grandson, Ocean

As we enter life’s December
pictures help us to remember
the lives that we have led.
A snake casts off entire skin
but only camera eyes take in
the shapes that we have shed.

A baby boy with double chin
sits Buddah-like with happy grin
for everything he sees.
A tiny girl stands on a chair
for studio portrait, will not wear
a false smile just to please.

Posed at first with sister, brother,
later we’re young father, mother,
and years speed up their flight.
Snapshots capture bits of pleasure,
moments with the ones we treasure
as dark hair turns to white.