No painter's brush, nor poet's pen In justice to her fame Has ever reached half high enough To write a mother's name. (Author Unknown)

The Solder of Limb Shade

Where you are is not where you are,

beneath the granite bench and the heart-footed deer,

under cover, under the solder of limb shade.

You are not sunk you are not skidded past by wind.

You are not level, rise, diaspora, root, nor the chime, pretty as it is,

above the stone field and its tulips.

But once, in a restaurant, they played your song,

and the house that I have built from almost nothing is hung about with birds.

You gave your final word to me. You said. You are.

(Beth Kephart, on her own mother’s passing away.)  

For Virgilio, Verge, Pilar, Carlos, Cake, Sabino, family and friends who will all miss Pilar so very much.