It’s difficult to believe my mom left this earth one year ago today–after a long struggle with the aftermath of a devastating stroke. No matter how difficult the journey, life is never really the same after your mother has left your world. Remembering you today, Mom. Once again, here is the poem you asked that we read at your funeral . . . and another from me. Love, e.
When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted
By Rudyard Kipling
When Earth’s last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
‘Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They’ll sit in a golden chair
They’ll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet’s hair
They’ll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They’ll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!
Love After Life
By Elaine
Transition always in motion,
summer and fall down again.
The cycle as soothing as lotion
on her translucent lavender skin
Fractured yet still—unbroken,
such loss we will bemoan.
But it is not all forgotten.
I go forward in faith alone.
The newness of year’s end beckons
To lead my discoveries of soul
On a journey measured in seconds—
Peace on purpose—to be whole.
I’m not sure how to rest amidst
the shadow of death’s raw glare
All I see is a thready wisp
Of a memory on gossamer air.
I will follow the lead of my truest heart
Unfold what is next without fear.
Not a nod to the doubts of others—
only to what is genuine and clear.
Remembering . . .
there is enough time to heal—
a moment and forever to be
to find the truth of all we feel—
in life’s relentless ubiquity.
Elaine Gantz Wright 
My late uncle was a fine arts appraiser and collector. He recently passed away at 85. He had a lot of art, and would rotate it around seasonally in his home since wall space is finite. However, a joyful work by your mother, Boy with Ball, was always out somewhere.
When he had to move to assisted living, it is one he selected for his apartment. She brought joy and beauty to his life. And to those around him; even caretakers in his last days were both interested and gladdened by the fine art in his rooms. We did not know her; she made a difference.
What a beautiful note. Made my day.