In what turned out to be my mother's last week, we "travelled" together a lot. We had brought her home from the hospital to be in her beloved house (the one that she told her real estate agent a long time ago that she would just know was "it" when she walked in). Her bedroom is filled with glorious artwork, both her own and from others, as well as a stunning collection of family photographs... It is a happy room, full of life and love, with gorgeous floor to ceiling windows. We looked out the windows often, watching the squirrels play tag and the birds flying by. On the wall were many Scottish scenes as well as paintings of her own family. I could tell that as the days moved on, she was journeying towards them.... One evening, my mother was looking wistfully into the distance, and then suddenly started talking about an island. I went with her flow and together we talked about this island that she was seeing, what it looked like, who was there... She told me about music there, about bright colours, about the birds. I thought it was beautiful that she could be so peaceful on this island when the realities were not always a match... Imagine my surprise when I later found this poem amongst her papers, written by herself many many years ago in 1960 after visiting St. Helena in the mid-Atlantic. It is called ""Sea Islands"... Strange and compelling is the fascination of islands, Always I have felt it, Always Am I drawn to them. Mysterious in their remoteness; Cut off from the world; Erupted in the middle of the vast lonely ocean. They are impossible things, Improbable, and almost not to be believed. It is as if they should never have been; As if they were a mistake, A creation in the world by accident; Thrown into the sea to sink And Yet Remaining- They may vanish into the mists, Once left behind will they start to be seen again? Almost an illusion are island... One never quite believes them: Their surprise is continuing and unceasing -a precious gift Unexpected in the giving and treasured in the keeping. Joan 1960