I thought she was just doing some plain gardening. Imitating mommy as she always does. "No" she said, "this is for Peter ." Her beloved pure white rabbit died sometime last year but in her tiny heart, Peter is somewhere near, there in our garden.
I, too, just built a memorial not long ago. Not of flowers and stone but of words....carefully and fearfully chosen words for a fine grandma who had etched many sweet memories in my heart.
I wasn't there so this poem was sent, framed and was read at the funeral.
to die at 95 is a celebration of that victory.
“It’s the fighting spirit!” she would proudly say
Whenever asked what secret of living long there be
To fight against all life’s test and bid, she’s got that spirit pretty strong indeed.
An orphan at early age, she knew poverty and faced it with dare
All younger siblings she made safe under her selfless care.
She gave birth during World War Two
Raised all seven children the following years, too.
A widow for many years, she remained the same, never broken
Still a faithful mother to all her grown up beloved seven
She cooked, she sewed, she served yet she also played and prayed
She deserves an honour of a total woman who had well loved and lived.
Nanay, Lola, or T’yay. How ever one calls her, they all mean the same
Love, respect, and honor, we all are proud to know her without shame
She welcomed death and was long ready
but the Giver of life didn’t take her away
Until everyone in the family could see
That anyone can triumph over life’s oddity.
After 95 years of sweat, blood, and tears
She now deserves this rest beside her Lord dear
and with the loved ones that went earlier.
“Well done, my child, well done. Enter now to thy eternal rest.”
Death tries to break,
but all in vain.