Slippers, perched at night stand, twitching impatiently, mark the absence of feet, cannot appreciate the meaning of unruffled bed covers.
Abandoned, a coffee mug bemoans its curdling contents, complains of thick brown lines contaminating its porcelain shine, has not noted absence of hands.
Chair, pushed back from desk, in partial rotation, sits awkwardly, commanding attention, disturbed by its misalignment, has not thought to ponder absence of body.
House, uncomfortable with silence, creaks unnaturally, loudly voicing objections to the absence of footfalls, automated machinery and incessant rings, beeps, and chimes of technology.
I try to reassure them that the absence is only temporary, that the man whose presence so strikingly fills this space will return, hope they cannot read the apprehension in my tremulous heart.
(Absence was written six years ago, while my husband recovered from a triple bypass. Image my own.)
Restlessness accompanies me on this sojourn today – unfazed by ripe red belly of robin, or shimmering emerald of breeding merganser’s crown.
My lens seeks out decay – rotting wood, darkened cavities, as if my soul craves reassurance that life persists even where death hovers – I need a sign
Discontent, I move on- drive the river road snail’s pace – praying for something to shake this malaise – birds come and go, trees radiate Spring green, I pause, unmoved.
And then I spot it, across the river, up high, a massive hulk; lens raises, adjusts, snaps, the regal hunter turns toward me regards me with ferocious intensity, does not falter on his perch –
All-seeing, fearless, he is spirit-manifested, a messenger, lifting me from stagnation – momentary redemption.
(Needing a Sign first appeared here, May 2019. Image my own.)
In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)