If you would have me near,

be present.

I am here, always.

Light a flame;

I rise in its warmth.

Lay cedar so the air remembers me.

Be present with

sandalwood,

coffee warm in the mug;

cold feet warmed by hands

that endured friction for them;

laughter thawing what aches;

sacred silliness,

giggling that brings the ancestors forward;

crowded tables,

plates on knees,

Dr. Pepper fizzing, 

old-fashioneds as ceremony.

Set the table.

Make it pretty:

holy.

Sharing food whispers,

“My life for yours.”

When sorrow came,

we sang Bohemian Rhapsody,

off-key, swaying,

arms locked.

If sorrow visits again, 

we have this:

voices lift tired souls; togetherness,

the golden thread.

I’ll be spinning with the grandmas.

Grandma Pill—

pilot,

hairdresser,

red acrylics,

naughty humor—

in a line of

rule-breakers and wise women, 

laughing—

loud, 

irreverent.

Every bird needs a nest.

When weaving unravels,

eggs can’t be held.

Family is this,

our container.

Grandma Elaine—

eleven children,

fed migrant children

with game,

cornmeal and flour.

Strength tied to her name, 

kindness to her tables.

Windchimes,

rain from a clear sky:

the Grandmothers speak.

At dusk, frogs go wild;

at dawn, crows gather high,

swooping 

down

with messages

from beyond.

Comfy socks whisper:

You deserve the best.

A spark in the chest

flares into knowing that’s too strong to dim.

Carnelian belongs on the altar.

And keep amber there,

warming what once lived—

each of us birthed with affirmations,

messages of worthiness.

“Where’s the white lighter?”

one of you asks.

Laughter will be your defense.

We laugh at this too—

the charade of separateness.

If you would have us near,

be honest—

silver in moonlight,

a reflection

cut through pride—

lift empty palms:

My mind unburdened,

my hands empty.

I am present.

They said the dead are gone,

caged in heaven or hell.

Foolish.

We are here, always.

Ancestor love is ice to water:

form changed, essence intact,

fluid now.

Missing lighters,

missing loved ones—

none vanished,

only seen another way.

True veneration is this:

the puzzle piece found,

the pattern whole.

The caterpillar fights dissolution,

yet the butterfly waits.

And the mother—

maker of miracles—

comes running.

Let your offering be transformation:

your truest self revealed

while helping each other.

Grandma Pill said her successes

were her descendants:

one choosing no children,

one breaking abuse,

one carving life in tattoos.

Do not be fooled by absence.

A piece fallen,

a name forgotten,

a chrysalis—

all are present,

shifting form.

What seems gone

is waiting.

If you would have us near,

be present.

We are. Always.