Thursday, April 5, 2018

NaPoWriMo Day 5


1.

The last time I saw her

she was lying in a casket.

With hardly any wrinkles – her skin

smooth and pale, she always

looked younger than her age:

hair, still black and shiny at 92,

lips full, cheeks rosy. If her eyes

had been open, their large black pupils

would’ve astonished you. Always

a beautiful woman, she delighted to say

that she looked exactly

like her mother.



2.

When I look in the mirror

I see her.



3.

I am 6 years old.

The middle of the afternoon on a week day.

After school, after lunch, to bed, to nap.

I can see her sitting by the window,

looking at the sidewalk across the street;

the winter air filled with cold and wind,

the sky grey. I imagine

she wonders why she’s there,

what she’s doing so far from home.

But it’s too late now.

Home is many thousands of miles away.

And she has a husband and a child.

I imagine she gazes at the house across the street

its gleaming white walls and iron wrought entrance.

Perhaps one of the neighbors is walking home

from the day’s errands saddled with shopping bags.

The light in the room

pale and weak

and all I can see

is her silhouette,

sitting by the window,

framed by the white drapes,

a glimpse of trees outside,

the light blue walls.

I imagine she can see the afternoon get dark.

Days are shortening,

light failing too soon,

and all that is left is darkness. And sadness.

Unimaginable sadness.





4.

In the old days – she used to say–

parents were not like today. They

didn’t hug

and kiss

and cheer their children on. 

She would say

don’t cry.

You make me cry.

She would say

don’t complain.

She would say

why are you unhappy? You have

everything.

We were like ostriches

digging our heads in the sand, avoiding any unpleasantness.


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