My grandmother would’ve turned 78 today. I think about her often, though it has been nearly eight years since she died. Soon my mother will move out of the house they shared for a couple years – the last place I spent time with her, surely taking for granted her company and her wisdom and her hugs, at the time.
I remember a house where all were good
To me, God knows, deserving no such thing:
Comforting smell breathed at very entering,
Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off some sweet wood.
That cordial air made those kind people a hood
All over, as a bevy of eggs the mothering wing
Will, or mild nights the new morsels of Spring:
Why, it seemed of course; seemed of right it should.
Lovely the woods, waters, meadows, combes, vales,
All the air things wear that build this world of Wales;
Only the inmate does not correspond:
God, lover of souls, swaying considerate scales,
Complete thy creature dear O where it fails,
Being mighty a master, being a father and fond.
– Gerard Manley Hopkins