Poem by Patricia Wallace Jones   •   Photo by Lois P. Jones
Firsts Go On Forever
The very first—my mother’s hands,
her bracelets, the color in the turquoise stones;
how she stood on the floor furnace brushing
her long salted hair—a hundred strokes
each night—her chenille robe billowing ghostly
around her—an eerie, yet friendly, apparition
to me;
the first time she gave me a brown paper bag,
scissors and crayons, encouraged me to work
from a darker ground; the first bream I caught
too big to land through the crack in the dock,
my first fly rod;
the first time I lost someone I loved to War,
her hand,  this time,  in an I’ve been there way;
the first time I paced outside Intensive Care
praying for a son, her hand in mine yet again;
the first time I paced outside Intensive Care
alone—and called inside to say goodbye,
the first time, as a motherless child, I kenned,
grasped the old spiritual a long way from home.

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