I am overwhelmed. I don't know what to do. I don't feel ready. I don't know how to be a mother. I've never thought I'd fear this... but now, I do. I want to know that when Beatrice comes it won't matter if I don't know everything, because she'll show me and teach me... one little thing at a time. And I'll learn.
Oh, how I want her to hold Beatrice. How I want to see her joy as she rocks her to sleep. How I want to know that she'll be there for us both... when I don't know what to do.
But Beatrice will never know her. And she can't be here.
But I will tell my sweet daughter, oh, I will tell her stories. She will know how much her grandmother wanted to be here, how much she wanted to hold her. How beautiful she was, how gracefully she danced, how generously she loved, how eloquently she spoke.
I need her words.
Please forgive me, but I've taken the liberty of altering this beautiful poem by Anna Hempstead Branch by putting it in the past tense... for it has been soothing to my soul.
Her Words
by Anna Hempstead Branch
My mother had the prettiest tricks
Of words and words and words.
Her talk came out as smooth and sleek
As breasts of singing birds.
She shaped her speech all silver fine
Because she loved it so.
And her own eyes began to shine
To hear her stories grow.
And if she went to make a call
Or out to take a walk
We left our work when she returned
And ran to hear her talk.
We had not dreamed these things were so
Of sorrow and of mirth.
Her speech was as a thousand eyes
Through which we saw the earth.
God wove a web of loveliness,
Of clouds and stars and birds,
But made not any thing at all
So beautiful as words.
They shine around our simple earth
With golden shadowings,
And every common thing they touch
Is exquisite with wings.
There's nothing poor and nothing small
But is made fair with them.
They are the hands of living faith
That touch the garment's hem.
They are as fair as bloom or air,
They shine like any star,
And I am rich who learned from her
How beautiful they are.
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