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  • It is possible to have more than one Mother.
    And she was, truly, an elevated human being.
    that phrase 'highly evolved' comes to mind...
    you can see it.
    Sometimes rising to blissfully beautiful
    especially when she'd bake, or touch me softly,
    with no warning, her hands moved to comfort.
    Sometimes her laughter started low in the back of her throat
    and her bright blue eyes signaled great mirth, her lively spirit!
    Her chortles would fill the air lifting all within hearing distance.

    A mountain, this tiny woman. The height of human capability.
    Born on a farm in South Dakota in 1909, one of 13 to proud Norwegian immigrant farmers
    she was proud of her humble beginnings.
    She rose and rose. Her spirit, her industrious self.
    Her wonderful sense of humor, her Christmas cookies,
    Her sweet rememberings, her fantastic intelligence
    Her deep warmth and caring heart. Her imagination.
    Her common sense, ah fresh breeze!

    Her breathing has stopped. She has moved on.
    The earth whirls round and round in space, in our solar system, our galaxy
    103 years on beautiful Earth. Her lovely life...

    Her funeral was beautiful.
    I listened to her son's perfect bass, deep and rich,
    precisely on key. Each note sung was pure.
    His rich, tone, lovely timbre.
    My God, those boys have voices…
    To the other's perfect baritone, sometimes lowering to bass,
    Shifting for a moment into tenor line, a blending of tone and harmony.
    One on either side of me, we stood .. we muttered .. they sang.
    just as she would have liked to hear them.
    Standing between them, I felt my heart lurch in different directions.
    Another mother’s boys.

    Outside, I saw my breath extend in front of me like a skinny cloud
    watched it form into tiny crystals, each one unique, fluttering,
    Barely moving in mid-air the crystals danced, then disappeared.

    Her brother, 93 years old, wrapped his hand around my freezing fingers.
    Earlier, his weathered fingertips had gently touched a photograph of her face
    the tip of his fingers slid across her forehead, over her hair and lingered,
    as though by touching
    she might turn and smile at him.

    They were and are, strong, those Norwegian farm boys and girls.
    Riding horses in blizzards, walking to school on top of frozen crusts of snow.
    Churning butter and baking cookies in spring...
    Laughter as they tumbled and ran through the corn in summer...
    In the fall, they picked ripe apples and ate, the juice squirting into the air around them.
    Life seemed simpler then.
    Their barn dwellers, the dogs, had the same name! Much easier.

    She occupies a place in the heart of me, in my center,
    and she will always remain.

    I look at the mountains and think of her smiling face,
    Her bright blue eyes, her gleaming white hair.
    Her funny jewelry … her little feet.
    A pair of sneakers...three sizes too large for her.
    Now they are mine! So comfortable. Just right!
    I can see her smile as I tie the laces... those bright blue eyes...
    the laughter we know is coming...
    Once hers. She loved those sneakers!
    I wear them now.
    They fit perfectly!
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