This is the poem my mom read when we buried Grandma and Grandpa’s ashes at the Rowley’s Bay Cemetery. It is from mom’s book Pine Ridge Memories, and is based on her parents.
Blanche Cushman Casey
Her footsteps, smallest movements,
sound too loud in the silent house.
Searching for his presence,
she finds faint wisps of it
in ordinary places:
Your slippers stay lined up on the bathroom floor
as if you’ll be coming in to shed your shoes,
out them on; so small and dainty
for a hard-heeled Irishman.
Down to earth, practical, still
you liked a bit of elegance;
I lean into your silky robe,
press its cool softness to my face.
How you loved your chair out on the porch
where you settled back,
breathed twilight like a prayer.
Scent of mock orange, earth smell,
village sounds,
wrapped us there together
in the evening darkness.
You were lord of our small manor,
I, your lady.
Oh, my love…
Barbara Larsen
Grandma in front of the fireplace in Baraboo
Grandpa travelling
Gertrude (Grandpa’s sister), Grandpa, and Grandma
