By Marian Glaser © September 2004
Pictures are original embroideries done by my mother
My hospital room holds three of my mother’s many embroideries.
Others hang in bigger houses. My life is in this room.
One embroidery shows a small boy and girl sheltered
under a huge green umbrella. I can’t see it without remembering
the Dutch poem (probably heard in my distant Dutch childhood)
about a brother and sister who borrow mother’s umbrella and
have to fight the wind to return it safely.
Each stitch made by her eighty-nine year old fingers
testifies to a love that reaches through the pain
of my lost independence. The buses I traveled on
to visit her are now impossible for me
but the spirit that creates beauty is here, comforting.
Other gifts, including plants, carvings, poems, cards,
embroideries and photographs, shower love from others
until I feel bathed in it, a part of distant scenes
so different from my present.
Hers is special. It speaks of her wish to
shield, guard, love.