“I don’t recall this house,” she said, in tears.
“It’s where you raised us children, Mom,” Tom said.
“Your honeysuckle vine is over there.”
He pointed to the corner of the yard,
where blossoms red clung to a green-leafed vine.
She shook her head. “I never saw this house.”
“The old gum tree’s where Billy broke his arm,”
Tom said, “when he fell from the highest limb.
The pies you baked you cooled upon that shelf
and Daddy liked egg custard best of all.
I liked the chocolate–don’t you recall?”
No matter how he tried, she did not seem
to recognize one memory of home.
Her babies all were born in that big bed;
the drapery at the window, she had made.
Her husband built the table out of oak; that’s
where the children bowed their heads for grace.
But not a hint of recognition sparked
her eyes while she walked slowly through the rooms.
Tom took her hand and gently led her out
the door, across the yard and to the car.
He drove the miles in silence to the Home
where she now lives with other residents.
He left her sitting in her easy chair.
There is one thing that he is certain of:
she’ll know her home in Heaven when she goes.
© Copyright Freeda Baker Nichols