a mother speaks to a stone by Quenby Larsen

Hold the heart of stone in your embrace. Spread your wing over the troubled ground. Tip your head to her sleep. She is a dream of prayer. She was my dream.

I will with your daughter stay. When you are home tonight, spread yourself on her bed. She is where you take her, but I will enable the care of her body soul spirit.

You seem more than stone. Why do I think you more than stone? I have never seen a figure more tenderly wrought. Are we women together?

A child’s heart has become our home. We are women.

Who made your wings? Who draped your dress? Did you hold the granite heart when they engraved it, when they set my child’s picture there?

I am always everywhere at once and in you and here. These other things concerning me are at once known and essentially known as every detail of the child in my care.

Are you God?

You are given me, then, to comfort. You are real to me. I believe because I must.


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10 responses to “a mother speaks to a stone by Quenby Larsen

  1. Isn’t that the nature of grief? To take comfort in whatever you need to?

    Nicely told.

    • Quenby Larsen

      Thank you ganymeder, for your nice comment and insight, and I agree with your statement concerning the nature of grief.

      Take care.

      — Q

  2. As a man with 3 daughters my feelings are more of a protective nature versus a nurturing one. I was moved none the less. Thanks for sharing.

  3. Quneby Larsen

    Ah, yes, of course, I can appreciate that distinction, but I am glad, nonetheless, that the story moved you. I can barely imagine this scenario I tried to write about and hope I never have to experience it. Isn’t that the desire of every parent, to see their children safely through life. Peace. — Q

  4. This really brings in the sadness of what these stones represent. Nicely done.

  5. Quenby Larsen

    ps I don’t know how my name got changed above, but it’s Quenby! I probably hit a wrong key or something.

  6. Lovely, Quenby. The image of spreading one’s self over the bed brings this huge lump to my head. I cannot imagine. There is a rare sacredness about your story. Peace…

  7. Pingback: Week #24 – Tombstones « 52|250 A Year of Flash

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