Architects are We

 Most of the time I do okay in not missing my mother with a guttural ache. And even tonight I am maintaining. But I do miss her, however, the angels tell me she has left me everything I need to write the memoir about her and me. And so I am.

I am so blessed. I have miraculous daughters. Just the kind of women you see and smile over, and then, once you get to know them, really get to know them, you find out what incredible strength and heart power they possess. They take the invisible and make it real.

So tonight, quite spontaneously, I want to jot down this poem, in honor of not only my mother, and my daughters, but also to women, in general, who make it work everyday, and do the doggone best they can.


 Sarah and I laugh at the little porcelain ceramic house I've bought for a Christmas decoration. "She's washing the dog," she says, as we squint to see what action is happening in the lit window of the tiny object. And sure enough, there is a woman, maybe Santa's wife, washing the dog in the sink. But only she knows how good the water feels on her hands, the warmth of the dog and the solitude of doing one's work. The castles, she builds, reaching for a towel.

"Built"