"We laugh when we realize our broken wings were never harmed. Flying, we hold hands and soar." -- Dedicated to Little Nan

My mother, Nancy, on the right with I think
either her best friend or a cousin.

One year ago today, and in a few hours, my mother, Nancy Lee Powell-Hastings, took flight and transitioned from physical to a higher consciousness of love. In looking for an old email, I stumbled upon this email from her in response to poems I had written to her for her 80th birthday. That was two years ago. Here is part of it:

Dear Sheela:

I have been reading it, but when I came to the part about - there is a room in my Father's house just waiting for Nancy and by then I had so many tears  in my eyes, I will have to wait until I can read the rest after I get some Kleenex. Sheela, you may never know how precious this writing is to me. How can I ever put it into words?  I am going to ask that it be placed in my casket with me at burial time. I want to show it to God so he can see what a talented daughter he made for me and Dad.

**

Frederick Reed and Nancy L. Hastings on
their wedding day, September 20, 1950.

Here are a few of those poems: 

Turquoise eyelids,

the smell of her lipstick

as golden as the tube. A blinding trip

to Bliss church on

Wednesday evenings

or Sunday nights,

Wienschnitzel, Dunkin’ Donuts,

Dad’s delight -

red smudge marks on her water glass.

Vision re-seen, oh, for that smell again, the visor

mirror pulled down to reveal her face,

the hymnal in her hand.

_____________________________________________

One-piece bathing suit, long limbs

her own little beach, the Lake Huron of the Hamptons

“this is the life,” she says

and I take note.

Decades later

I want to put her back on that towel

on that sandy beach,

but instead urge her to swim new waters

where bathing suits

and burdens no longer exist.

_______________________________________

My mother on the left, my cousin, Sheri, in the
middle, and me on the right. Swimming was
my mother's passion.

I see her in a field of carnations

and want to place her on a mountain of roses, white,

yellow, pink and red, filling her nostrils like oxygen

new breath from a place where thorns cannot grow.

____________________________________________

“You’ll be the Belle of the Ball she says to me,

 and I want to dance with her, to take her with me,

searching for the invitation we are trying to find.

_______________________________________

When she reaches for the emeralds

of her thoughts, she will swim into an ocean of

diamonds, as liquid as the sun,

a back stroke across a turquoise sky

she will laugh when the crown slips below her eyes,

moving faster, she knows more

jewels are ahead.

________________________________

My poetry makes her cry. Her tears

cause me to sew together the cloth

grown from the seeds that are us.

 

No matter the fight, the gossip,

the railings, the wounds,

I see my mother in her backyard,

crying, as we sleep.

 

The softness of your skin

is the feather of my flight.

 

If she falls,

I fall,

if she burns,

I burn.

If she melts,

I melt,

motherhood and daughters are

stirred in the same broth.

_________________________________

And this is her favorite:

There is a bedroom in my father’s house

made for Nancy,

the walls are of Moab stone

flooring is El Paso tile

her bed a sleigh pulled by huskies

the Northern lights through her window,

she builds a fire only she can create.

______________________________________

Finally, when my mother was in the rehab hospital and the doctors and some family members were still holding on to the idea that she would recover, yet my sister and I knew it was not to be, one Friday evening, as we three waited for the transport crew to take her to yet another hospital, we sat and waited and I tried to play "Blue Moon" for her on my Blackberry. It would begin playing and she'd lay back  her head, ready to reflect and remember, and to let the music, as it always did, cause her to feel the emotion, but in this case as soon as she readied for maybe a nostalgic tear or two, the video would cut out so horribly that we would collapse in laughter. The tears, as a result, turned to joy.

To you Mama - always. I love you, Mom. I know you are simply on another plane and I feel your happiness. Keep flying, Nancy. Fly high. Thank you for the encouragement with our book. It is coming right along, but you know that.

Te amo. One year later, Mother, I am still cheering you on.