We Miss You Still

We Miss You Still

We miss you
Still
And imagine
                      It is you glinting on the wings of flight bound hawks, 
                      Your gentle barefoot steps swaying graceful fields of daffodils.

We stand wrapped in the fog of spring’s first warm nights 
And imagine 
Mama moon is a window to you. 

We miss you
Still
And we talk to the shadow 
Cast by gloaming light—
And imagine 
Replies murmured 
In the susurrations
Of new green leaves
On trees you planted. 

We miss you
Still
And sometimes the tears run
Hot and heavy 
And our hearts ache
And our sobs catch
In our tightened chests,
And we miss you
As if we just heard you were gone. 

Then
A hawk flies over,
And a breeze moves through the daffodils,
And for a second
We hear your voice. 

4/5/21

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In the south, small country churches have what is called “Homecoming,” and it is much of what you might imagine. The generations brought up in that church come home to it. In preparation, the cemeteries are decorated with bright new flowers, and the grounds are manicured.

The Sunday of Homecoming is an all day affair, with the usual service followed by a potluck dinner often held outside under the trees on a table that stretches from nearly the road to the church along the edge of the parking lot. A gospel “singing” (a.k.a. concert) follows the feast, and throughout the day, one generation walks with another among the stones and flowers and memories, and they reminisce. They tell stories of those who can no longer make it home and how we miss them.

At the church where I was raised, Homecoming always fell on Mother’s Day. For my mother it was one of the most anticipated days of the year. I have not been since we buried her amongst the stones and the flowers and the memories. Still, though, her grave and that of my father are dressed each year for the occasion. This year, when I ordered the flowers, I asked that the florist place this poem in the vase under the stems.

* * * * * * * * *

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Unless otherwise noted, all material--written, photographic, and artistic--is the original work of Estora Adams. All rights reserved.

The last photo I took with my mom on the last homecoming she was able to attend, days before she died.