January’s Frost

As Mother counts her last days, and I open my heart to forgiveness, a daughter calls, reaming me out for wrong-doings – January is not cold enough to freeze tempers – family coals burn and shatter, and all we can pray for is metamorphosis.  Soon, I will return to warmer temperatures, attempting to elude this frigid climate, save the scorching for the sun.

Hearts have seasons too –
I lumber through chilled air,
crave a touch of warmth.

(A haibun for dVerse, hosted by Kim tonight.  I am also submitting this for Ragtag Community’s lumber, Fandango’s metamorphosis, and Manic Mondays 3 Way Prompt, shattered.)

Waiting on Heaven

“My children have come home to watch me die,”
she tells her doctor, repeats to me, #5, when I arrive.

“You leave the world the same you came in,” Doc said,
as if that makes sense, as if that offers comfort.

“We don’t want to see you suffer anymore,” I offer.
She agrees, tired of the pain.  92 and nothing but pain.

It’s not death that she fears – she’s ready –
it’s the dying – not knowing how it will happen.

“Will you be with me? When the time comes.”
I will.  Just as I did with a sister, two cousins,
father, an aunt, and countless others.

“Angel of Death,” a nurse called me once.
I shrugged: “Would you want to die alone?”

Death, I do know, is like birth,
in that the timing is unpredictable.

So, together, we’ll wait –
biding our time, talking about the present,
reflecting on the past, wondering what lies ahead.

Not all transitions, I’ve learned, are alike.

(I’ve returned home to be at my mother’s side, although, as the poem indicates, she may survive the current setback.  I’m linking this up to Manic Mondays 3 way prompt: reflection, and my own weekly challenge: transition.)

 

Ride Along With Me 2

Passenger, I am –
delegated to back seat –
input seldom asked for,
even less appreciated.

I ride along.

Passenger, I am –
at best can only speculate
about direction – limited
sight lines here in the back.

I am not driving.

Had a driver once,
motivated and self-assured –
could sit back and relax –
until his mistress climbed in.

Who invited her?

Driver #2 is handsome,
but lacks directions, so
no one is paying attention.

Others ride along too.

There’s a high school dropout,
who likes to pick his parents pockets,
and get boozed up on Friday nights.

How did he get here?

Ride along, if you wish, but be warned –
this vehicle is outdated, and likely unsafe –
we’ll just have to squish together.

They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

Oh yeah, my crazy sister is aboard too,
Or maybe it is me, ‘cause I swear
I saw the ghost of another –
bent on haunting me along the way.

Probably a good thing I’m not driving.

Night is falling, and we stop for gas,
and the neon lights remind me –
if I’ m going to make a break,
it’d best be now.

Or, I could find a new driver.

What I put God at the wheel?
What if I said: God, give me direction?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?

Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?
And would we fly above the obstacles,
straight to the Promised Land?

Fantasy, unfortunately –
for now, I’ll remain back here,
until life restores vitality,
and my head is clear again.

Then I’ll park this old vehicle.

And get a new model with GPS.

(I’m revisiting old posts, editing, and re-introducing some of them.  Ride Along With Me  was written in November of 2014, six months after being bedridden with ME.  It was inspired by a dream, and understandably, represents a woman who has lost everything, trying to make sense of life.  I thought it is actually quite fun, and may have a wider application, so I resubmit it here.)