The Lost Medal

She aspired to sainthood and succeeded - the one dream realized during her lifetime.  

It was common knowledge. Everyone knew she walked the walk: never gossiping, never complaining, never exalting herself above others.  Living her faith day by day, and bearing the fruits of a selfless heart.    

A few tangible things remain in my possession as keepsakes of her: the crepe orchid dress with the gossamer jacket she wore to church.  It still hangs in my room, seven years later.  

No one else I know is worthy of a dress so lovely and delicate.  Goodwill or the Salvation Army Thrift Store would be pleased to receive it, I’m sure.  Any woman would love looking so church-proper and elegant.  But how can I part with this symbol of her truest pleasure: her weekly sabbatical from slave labor.                 

Then there’s her journal with roses on the cover.  The book containing remnants of her life, dreams that never came to fruition for whatever reason.  With eight siblings in her family of origin, college was out of the question.  A teaching career forbidden.   

Another aspiration of hers: to become a writer.  The following story is found in her journal, which I converted to poetry and third person. 

Today is her birthday.  She would have been ninety-three.  Happy birthday Mother. 

This poem is for you.

THE LOST MEDAL

For Nellie

In late sun one afternoon she rakes and sifts

Through fallen leaves, hunting determinedly

Underneath the apple tree

Where she believes her missing medal to be –

The one received in school for best writer.

But time has bound her hands to domestic duty:

Endless sweeping, cooking, laundry –

Stuck in a common

Quandary, yet a time-honored

And noble vocation. 

Some call it sacrifice

To abandon one’s own voice and vision

For obligation.  Therefore she stashes

In her black scrapbook her daughter’s verses,

Esteeming each poem a literary jewel.

And trusts that her only girl will

Someday find her mother’s lost medal.