Each week, many of our residents meet for Creative Writing Group with Lisa McKenzie. The class offers a creative outlet and the opportunity to flex their writing muscles.
This month, we’d like to highlight a poem by Edith Samuels, dedicated to her grandnephew, Avi Craimer:
The Conjuror
Sometimes
When I think about my mother
I close my eyes
And I can see her
As clear
As if she were here today
Although
She died nearly fifty years ago
Her hair
A trifle out of place, as usual,
Soft and wavy,
Snowy white as chalk,
Frames her face.
Eyebrows, shapely ovals,
Still black as a newly washed chalkboard
Outline her tender, deep-set eyes,
Lively, loving,
Shining like black coffee.
Cheeks
Tinted pink with rouge,
Her face powder puffed,
Lips, colored red as ripe cherries,
Skin, soft and smooth as a young woman’s.
When I was a little girl,
How I loved watching her,
Put on her makeup.
Laughing at herself,
She named this daily ritual
Putting on her “shmearky”
Because she “shmeared”, it on.
Each time I picture her,
She is smiling,
Younger then I am now.
A sensation of quiet comfort fills me
A feeling of peace and profound connection envelops me
How strong love is
Defying time and absence
Yet,
No matter how hard I try
I cannot hear her voice.
