by Elizabeth de Barros


Lace curtain,

French urn,

You’re an

Adirondack chair

with a touch of fresh paint —

You’re ticking stripes,

a tall glass of lemonade,

shades, straw hat, and lipstick.

You’re a slew of window boxes,

  herb garden,

  honest, overflowing, and lush.



changing year to year.

Candle flame in the dark,

 laying up prayers

with your heart on your sleeve,

inviting me into your arms,

laying down your crown

        at His feet.  


© 2012 Elizabeth DeBarros  


Whenever I call my mother, we usually talk either about how she’s feeling, the weather, what she’s eating for dinner or what I’m cooking for ours. I then try to keep her up to date with the rapid pace of growth and production of testosterone going on at our house. She never fails to ask for everyone by name. If she’s up to it, the conversation moves into the past and we’ll land on a memory, chew it to bits, have a laugh or two. I love it when she roars. It strengthens her spirit. And mine. Other times, we’ll briefly touch on a current event, acknowledge the strong hand of God and end up praising Him together.

Today was different.

At one point, I stumbled over my words, then I didn’t have any. I just cried. Hot, sweet tears.

She let me.

And I could hear her thanking God.