This prose poem was published in Suddenly V, a juried anthology of Texas writers. It is full of vivid imagery and emotion.

I wanted Mom to see it--the fairy wand of sun streaking through the February fog in Rochester, Minnesota. I guided her arm, patient with her deliberate steps, and short breaths, to the fifth story hall window near the cardiac unit. Arms around each other, we drank in the scene. Sun sparkled diamonds to the twig tips of every tree. Back in her room, Daddy handed me coffee. They were ready for her in surgery. Hours dragged, sun climbed the sky, melted the frost into grey limbs, the streets to mud and slush, set again umteen games of cribbage later. Dark turned slush to dirty ice. "I'm sorry," the nurse said to my father, "your wife passed away during surgery." We staggered across the street for a double vodka martini, up with a twist, a glass of wine, and two grilled sandwiches with no taste. Fog rolled into our minds, through the necessary arrangements, and settled over the drive home ahead of the next blizzard--the blizzard that would strand the rest of the family at the Detroit and Minneapolis ariports to make even longer drives in rented cars over icy roads. But sparkles filled a clear night sky our last evening together--fireworks. "Give her a good send-off," my brother said. Four months later, we gathered again, wearing winter coats in June for the late spring chill on Lake Superior. Middle-aged children sprinkled ashes, young adult grandchildren scattered rose petals, while the youngest generation smiled. The sun stretched her fairy wand through the clouds, sparkled off the petals. If I close my eyes, I can still see the sun on the hoarfrost and the rose petals, feel her last hug of joy in the beauty of simple things.