She was with me when she died,
With thousands of miles
And the Caribbean Sea between us.
Maybe it was because I was her favorite,
And the power of her love
Evaporated the distance.
Or maybe her power came from
Being the oldest offspring of
The seventh son of a seventh son
Who was born February 29, 1876, in Ireland.
People sought his power, true power,
To heal, to calm, to grow, to see, to know.
Thirteen years after her death
She visited the next generation
With her blue eyes and pink hair.
Or so claimed my 3 year old at the time,
As she spoke through raging fever,
To the air above her.
Another decade had come and gone
And her last words from the 3 a.m. visit
Still resonate in my head.
“I am fine now. I was just so weary.”
When the call came hours later,
I was not surprised. I already knew.
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