We wait at the station, Mother and I, one final stop for her – painless she prays; I busied at bedside – prolonged goodbye – memories and regrets filling our days.
“We live too long,” she wearily proclaims “Why must suffering linger till the end?” I plea and bargain, call angelic names, yet the will to survive refuses to bend.
The urgency builds as my time dwindles; must I leave her in this compromised state? She rallies and stands on wobbly spindles dismisses fears – has accepted her fate.
Some destinations are clearly defined – Death is a train whose schedule’s unkind.
(The Last Train first appeared January 2019. Image my own)
Mother said: “Look after your sister!” What she meant was: Take this burden off my shoulders; I am no longer able to cope.
Father said: “Do as I say, not as I do!” What he meant was: I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with my own problems, so don’t bring me yours.
Sister said: “Be a good auntie!” What she meant was: I am too young to be a mother, and you are much more responsible, so take care of my consequences.
So I ran away to build my own life: met a man and married, bought a house, had children, and dreamed of a future that would erase the past… but
Husband said: “If you really loved me, you’d lose weight, be less effusive, control your temper, and be more supportive of my choices.”
What he meant was: I’m going to grind you so far into the ground and then I’m going to cheat and cheat and you’ll have nothing left inside to do anything about it.
And without a word, I left.
What I meant was: I am a real person with needs of my own, and despite my faults or limitations, I deserve better.
(This is an edited version of an older poem by the same name, December 2018. Image my own)
There is light in unknowns – at least I project it there – caught between the current ashen landscape and the achings of a solitary childhood…
I like to think faith guides me but she is muted like the gardens of my dreams, more ethereal than palpable and I need concrete have waited too long for that train
of certainty to carry me away… course it never comes, there is no easy just a slow, steady plodding: a pace that age has settled on; so I turn to inner landscapes, imagination remembering colour…and yes, light.