By Mary Kathleen Felice
my brother’s books are old with dusty jackets and torn covers yellow edged and sepia toned pages many dangling from broken spines as are we worn and aged through time as was he until his passing on the most recent of Mothers’ Days the heavenly reunion of which I’m sure brought far more than a river of joyful tears to each my brother’s books of wild flowers, ferns and grasses flowering foliage and flight patterns of old world warblers to sparrows each, a gift to me far greater than that of the printed word each offering a glance through the magnifying glass of life into the contents of his heart bringing a discovery of his love and appreciation of creation and a testament to his insatiable thirst for knowledge my brother’s books now held in my hands hands, now too, weathered with age are taking prominent residence within my home bringing him closer to me in death than he was in life each an olive branch of sweet kindness a bandage to my wounds gifted to me painting a picture of a gentler soul than my brother as I remember him and the inked tattoo of his reputation as etched over life’s journey
Academy of the Heart And Mind 