It comforts me to imagine that once they’ve passed, our mothers’ memories exist as a protective silken tent, woven of their lives.
In time, once our tears have dried, each tent sways slightly in response to the wind of our thoughts. They are not – or are no longer – tense or tired, but instead relaxed, comfortable to be around.
The tent’s pole, is its strength, backbone, character, and firmness, perhaps the lessons she has taught us. But she is not – or is no longer – dogmatic or insistent.
Rather, grounded in part by her deep investment in friends, family, and community, she is gently bound in our memories of her.
The Silken Tent
by Robert Frost
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
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