I barely remember my mother’s mother, my memories are not like an elephant

I remember her glass cabinet, to a child’s eyes as old as centuries, holding the glass elephant

 

To be allowed to hold it, coveted because covered with the tiniest of jewels,

With cupped hands, safely seated, holding my breath, finally touching the elephant.

 

Feeling the rough bumps of the leathery skin, the festival noise fades away

With silky cushions to sit upon, in silence, we are riding the steadiest of elephants!

 

Even older: lighting a candle, holding out the Cup, chanting the living Word

Here is love made touchable, belief following behind like an elephant.

 

No crying for this Rachel in the wilderness, though this a now of deep slow fear –

We will come to an end of losses in the end. Will we remember the elephant?