Because beautiful memories should be kept in a poem

...for Kelly Rutt

Before she knew cancer was eating her ovaries,

before her body could no longer fight

the war that raged in her cells,

she gifted me a compass

set in a hexagon block of inlaid wood.

Black face with white degree increment lines

and N E S W in bold, kelly green…

bold…

Kelly.

There is a crimson arrow

resting right above N

always seeking true north,

pointing to a path that

leads me back home,

but I must choose

to look,

to learn,

to follow…

truth-seeker,

truth-teller,

way-finder.

She walks with me in my dreams,

arm warm across my shoulder…

the same shoulder she once worked

the knots out of as we soaked at Goldbug,

telling me I carry too much…

now a memory brought to life

on a ruminant night.

She reminds me, hands are instruments

of healing and lifting,

for expressing joy and gratitude,

but become useless when filled

with too many burdens,

when we carry too much.

We don’t need a compass

as we wander thin places,

gathering memories like bouquets

of forget-me-not,

and we are never lost here

long enough.

April 12, 2023

Laurel