Every Good Thing

It was a simple kind of grandeur.

Her hands in dish soap,

humming a song that made her fall in love

with a new kind of music,

whirring along with the summer fans,

a flurry of have-tos and want-tos

that ebbed and flowed like a ballet.

It was a stubborn kind of hope,

arms that were expert,

unpacking cardboard boxes,

making new walls 'home' within a weekend.

She always made the most

of everything,

fingers piecing the smallest scraps together,

redeeming every threadbare patch,

mending seams,

harvesting the lace from stained gowns,

for just the perfect,

delicate,

touch.

It was in the frosting,

left on the spatula

and the hot cake tops,

eaten before they got a chance to cool,

laughter shared

through smiles edged with buttercream.

She had a way of filling a pitcher

with my tears,

using them to water my roots,

encouraging me to expand deeply,

to grow thorns where necessary,

to blossom.

It was the only way she had a green thumb.

Her gentle guiding hands

showed me how to build a life overflowing

with fundamental felicity

and intricate love.

It was a simple kind of grandeur.

She was

every

good

thing.