This is no man’s window, but a mothers.
Take a moment. To think of mothers. And grandmothers. And women. And daughters.
And their soft hearts, and gentle voices. And their warm ways of remembrance.
And how safe it was to touch them, smell them, see them.
And their love of the small things that speak of connection, memory, warm spirits.
And the little things they treasured and saved,
That otherwise would be lost
And the world they always wished for us, when even the men they loved could not.
Answering her faint good-byes
“Will laugh and call your name; while you
Still answering her faint good-byes,
Will find the street, only to look
At doors and stone with broken eyes.
Walk now, and note the lover’s death
Henceforth her memory is more
Than yours, in cries, in ecstasies
You cannot ever reach to share.”
– Hart Crane, “Stark Major”
