Today,
the mother wakes,
late,
first light entered several hours past.
This is
new.
What is not,
is the gaze through what is barely veiled,
the petitions,
often bold.
The expectation. Hope. The waiting.
Today, the youngest lies close, taking comfort.
Comforting.
This is
not
new.
What is,
is
the swell of gratitude at
the swell of the voice of the oldest,
carrying across
rooms but not walls.
Tonight,
the
mother welcomes rest. Late. Sighs unwind themselves from every tangled daytime worry, failed plan,
unmet hope.
She closes eyes against silence, thankful for it.
And in between,
in the seeming eternity of the day in day out mundane cliche of workload,
and only when she forgets, which is often,
will she welcome the abyss.
How can she be lonely?
The name held in mind, but not often leaving
lips,
near
as the ones
she
treasures.
And somehow, still,
in this continuance, she loses morning, daily.
Striving, in the after of the bask,
she
loses,
also, sight and way.
She summons
strength
but not the
want.
Not all the time. Still, time lapses along with memory and so she recreates a semblance of
remembrance.
She knows too much and not enough.
Somewhere beyond the
threshold, beyond
the formless flicker and its flight,
there
is a promise to follow
away from the rise.
She knows this:
somewhere in the middle
is the beginning
and the end.
Some unaltered moment waits for notice.
If she could say what she knows not how to say, however slight,
she thinks she
might find power in surrender, release
from
former,
and at
present,
she commences to remember.
The Sunday Whirl
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