We’ve had some wild weather lately here in Indiana. Howling winds, pounding rain, flashing lightning, nearly endless thunder.

And so I looked among Mom’s poetry to see if … yes, of course:

Storm

The day she died
a rage of weather in the night
hard rain thunder lightning
things she loved and feared
exploded
as her life had
the daily disagreements
roared to violence of words
then wars of silence
the arms on both sides
that had hugged and held each other
stopped in mid-air
stopped before they struck each other

~ joan vayo ~ April 1, 1998

Although it’s certainly none of my business, I wonder for whom this poem was written. Mom cultivated scores of friendships over the decades and carefully stayed in touch as we moved from state to state.

She saved multiple letters from a troubled friend who longed to be a writer, but received little encouragement from spouse or children. The letters were so sad and private that I destroyed them, with a quiet prayer of remembrance.

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“Storm” © 1998, Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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