Now that three steamer trunks have arrived packed with papers from Mom and Dad’s attic, it’s more obvious to me than ever that Mom was a prolific writer.

This question has been on my mind recently … what was her final verse? It may take years to sort through her decades of letters, poems, and prose, but since most are dated, surely the answer will appear eventually.

She used to laugh about her first verse. Little Joan Cassidy was in the fourth grade – and in the bathtub – when she wrote:

As I was going down the road
Who should I meet but Tommy Toad

But her final verse? As Parkinson’s Disease’s cruel claws squeezed increasingly tighter, Mom was less able to hand-write – much less type – her thoughts. Her many greeting cards and cheerful notes, mailed year-round, decreased and eventually stopped.

Her body was slowing, yet her mind and her imagination were still sharp. She was still writing.

As I took a break from unpacking artwork, books, and dishes from my parents’ house this morning, I didn’t pick up a book. Instead, I grabbed a stack of greeting cards Dad had collected in his desk.

Among the birthday, anniversary, and Father’s Day cards was a folded piece of lined paper. The handwriting was familiar, if smaller and lighter.

Willard’s Island

Maybe for now I don’t write poetry
but I do remember Willard’s Island
and the wood thrush singing
at the peak of the pine
begging to be translated.
~ JCV 9/14/13

Willard Island is a section of Mom and Dad’s beloved Hammonasset Beach State Park, just a few miles from their house. They spent many, many hours walking on the beach and its boardwalk.

Some mornings, they’d share a muffin and a cup of coffee. Other times, they’d bring grandchildren and visit around sunset, to count the bunny rabbits as they hopped home. In later years, they’d remain in their car and drive to a beautiful lookout point. They’d hold hands as they watched the waves crash to shore, and listen for the sound of the wood thrush.

“Willard’s Island” © 2013 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.

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