Grandpa called her sweetheart,
The love of his long life.
As time tenderized their care,
Her gentleness and appeal
Called for a name
To match all they had shared.
Sweetheart.
My love whose sweet is real.
Sometimes it’s just a name.
Something to fill the void.
Sweetheart.
Suspended between a think and a feel.
And then one day we see it lived,
That moment love is shared.
Sweetheart.
The one whose sweet is real.
I have searched for days,
For a word to capture well
The essence of her spirit,
She who gave our family a great deal
Of learning and laughter
And nurture and soul.
Sweetheart.
The one whose sweet is real.
Sweetheart isn’t a name
To commemorate any great feat.
Unless, of course, you happen to have
Ten grandchildren to make feel
Worthy. At peace. In confident care.
Then a mighty hero indeed!
Sweetheart.
The one whose sweet is real.
It’s true, because I am one
Who knows her heart as sweet
As the honey I dipped those
Tatortots in, sitting alone at a
meal.
Five years old and I still recall,
She affirmed my lack of lunchroom
speed.
Sweetheart.
The one whose sweet is real.
She told me many times my eyes
Reminded her of her mother;
Maybe their shape or their color.
But things aren’t always as it seems,
And so I begin to wonder
If she didn’t know it true….
That my eyes saw, like her mother’s
too,
A heart that beat with the sweetest
of things.
Grandpa called her sweetheart
A woman whose sweet was real.
And I am always grateful for
That woman whose sweet was real.
Grandma Ikast, you have inspired, nurtured, and cherished us all well. Now rest in the arms of the One who created the sweet in you.
 |
| Baby Briggs with Great Grandpa & Grandma 2014 |
