Many of the things in this home remind me of past pleasures:  My mother’s collection of unmatched delicate china; photographs; the sand jars that my son and foster-children made one autumn weekend at the Renaissance Festival; dried flowers in a pottery vase, collected on so many marvelous occasions, each a jeweled memory on its own.

These mementos remind me of times that I have enjoyed, times that I have faced life with an unfearing spirit.  More, they gently assure me that such times might come again.

My words feebly convey my emotions.  But here are words that do what I cannot:

“A Prayer”

When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul’s full depth and length,
Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
Loving life for its own sake.

************
Sara Teasdale