I remember a fall day much like this one.
I was learning to make apple butter,
stirring and listening to you,
your mother and other women of your family--
how many years ago was it, thirty perhaps, or more?
Stories flew around the steaming kettle,
tales of growing up on that very land,
and the trouble your brothers got you into.
Memories, memories,
sweeter than the apples we were cooking.
It was a good day, with quarts of steaming
spicy-sweet spread to reward our labor
although it did not feel like work at all,
all that stirring of the apples and poking of the fire.
It was cold, November and dreary as November often is
but the fire and the fiery wit kept us warm without and within.
Now you've left to travel on, to light the way
the rest of us will surely follow in our time.
Ahead there waits your mother and your father
and a host of angels singing their joy
that you will be one among them.
Here, tears will be shed but there will be laughter too
and stories shared, good times remembered
by all those who were fortunate enough
to share some time with you.
In memory of Alice Simons Casto
Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.
