For Pam Macchi

…in gratitude and remembrance

Soft hands,
Hands worn with time,
Held the brush
Dipped in the paint
Paused before the canvas.

Calm eyes,
Eyes wizened to the steadfast pulse
Underlying life’s inconsistencies,
Closed—to envision a scene
No other earthly eyes could see.

She painted
Upon the canvas
Upon the hearts of those she touched
With her soft hands
Her calm eyes.
She painted
What others could not understand
What the Bridegroom allowed her to behold.
She trained wandering eyes to trace
The line of the horizon
On her canvas, to envision
What it took only faith to see.

Her voice was quiet
Yet strong
Waiting to speak with purpose,
Calling her children by name.
It was the voice of a mother
Shepherding a flock built of generations
And nations,
Born from the womb and birthed from her heart.
No matter how they came
She loved them,
Carried them,
Taught them.

Her feet, calloused,
Tread a path for her children to follow,
And broke into dance with the man she loved
Upon the horizon she saw when she closed her eyes.

I close my eyes
And I still see her
Dancing—eyes thrown open
To immense beauty,
Beauty the struggle of life prepared her to see.
She is near still—
Living on in her children,
In those to whom she gave of herself,
In the heart of the man who shared her life.
She painted indestructibly
With mediums that will not fade.

Her eyes are closed,
Yet they are open.
They are still seeing what others cannot understand.
Her heart is still resonating
With the steadfast pulse underlying the pain of inconsistency.
If she were here she would take our hand
And help us trace the line of the horizon to rest
Upon the chest of her Bridegroom
So we could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat too.