She looked very much like the Queen Mother– not only in her coloring but in the way she dressed.
Heavy silk dresses, a string of pearls, a brooch pinned neatly below her neckline.
She was always prim and proper, her expression composed, though it softened into a lovely smile when we sang “Happy Birthday,” when she beat me at checkers, and especially when she offered a slice of lemon meringue or apple pie, still warm from the oven.
One day she wore a dress my mother had sewn for her from fabric covered in flowers the color of those in the flower power advertisements.
I looked at her in wonder.
“Wild flowers!” I declared.
She giggled then– a light, girlish sound I had never heard before.
For an instant, I caught sight of someone other than my dutiful Nana:
a young woman bright with life, still there beneath the silk dresses and pearls.
It was enchanting!
The following passage was in a note Nana once wrote to me:
Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme, Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay; Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, For O! it is not always May! by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow It is Not Always May
I never asked why. It was in her Dutch blood, her Calvinistic sense of simplicity– upright, unadorned.
On Mother’s Day there were always tulips: pale pink, set in her Delft vase, its blue-and-white surfaces catching the light, holding it quietly beneath the stems.
I tried, sometimes, to improve upon them– those lavish arrangements– variegated tulips, blue hydrangea, white roses, small bright globes of yellow– but she would only smile, as if to say: not this.
She wanted the tulips alone.
Now, after many years and other flowers– peonies, lilies, anemones, even the careful making of paper petals–
I pass a market stall and stop.
I bring home tulips, pale pink, and set them in her vase.
In the quiet of the room they open, and she is there.
It seemed a small thing then, learning by touch. – Joan Currie
Touch Typing by Joan Currie
I first learned to type on a machine with blank key caps, working through a manual until I knew exactly where every letter and number lay. That early fluency has served me well.
Your body, too, I first touched–memorized blindly, in the dark. Exploring each contour, as if it were a map I could follow by feel alone.
From your thick, curling hair down the slope of your forehead, to each familiar landmark– the aquiline nose, the square jaw, the wide sternum, the strong arms, the soft pads of your fingers, the smooth plain of your belly, the steely band along your outer thigh, the steady weight of your feet.
Over the years you have shown me how your body has changed, but I still see it as I first learned it– certain, enduring, and, to me, handsome still.
I once believed in fairy tales, in love so vast, so bright, A love that soared on golden wings and lit the darkest night. I dreamed of hands that knew my own, of hearts that beat the same, Of whispered vows in starlit hush, of love that burned like flame.
Yet time wove shadows in my path, and love became a ghost, A wistful wish, a fleeting dream, a ship without a coast. I wandered through the quiet years, through echoes soft and thin, Not knowing love was biding time, still waiting to begin.
And then—you came, like summer rain, like dawn upon the sea, A love so deep, so fierce, so true, it woke the soul in me. No fleeting spark, no passing storm, no whisper in the air, But something strong as ancient oaks, as certain as a prayer.
The love of ballads, sonnets bright, the love that poets weave, The love of kings and wayard knights, of hearts that won’t deceive. A love where laughter, wild and free, is laced with tender sighs, Where every glance is poetry, where longing never dies.
So here we stand, with hands entwined, where fate and dreams align, A love reborn, a tale retold—forever yours and mine. No more a wish, no more a ghost, no more a fleeting glance, But love, at last, as it should be—our fated, timeless dance.
I have found love again! I am so grateful for each and every glorious moment we spend together!
On Valentine’s Day, the world may sway, With roses and hearts on display. But true love blooms in everyday, In acts of kindness, come what may.
Not in grand gestures or lavish affair, But in the tender moments we share. In simple joys and burdens we bear, Love’s essence found, beyond compare.
It’s in our laughter that fills the air, In quiet moments, hearts laid bare. In comforting hugs, always there, Love’s beauty shines on us, a pair.
Our love is found in the mundane, In whispered words like gentle rain. In steadfast presence, free from strain, A bond that weathers every pain.
So on this day, let’s not forget, That love’s true worth, we shall not fret. In day-to-day acts, our souls are met, In the special moments, love is set.
Wishing you all a wonderful Valentine’s Day on the 14th! xo ❤️
Satin & Sand 