I seem to be an old mother who can’t wail.
She’s too far away.
I silently watch my sons ripped from me on TV.
Though I can’t believe I can really care
about these people, theirs, ours,
I have enough stress in my life:
a “spirited” kid,
a complex psyche healing from wounds,
I listen like the words of each chapter are dark chocolate. I hear a new dimension of writing. The audiobook All the Light We Cannot See stirs me. Every inanimate or corporal being in that book sings or smells or touches the senses.
The book, based on a true event…
Babe, you worked hard
on that story of Jeremy —your first love.
history of the 60's,
to your cousin,
I give you
an Honorable Mention —
5,000 kisses on both cheeks.
I also award your early morning,
really early, morning edits. …
Tuesday last black thoughts cavorted in my brain. I remind myself: that’s like so and so and her hatchet judgments. Am I that kind of unaware? I dread this.
I notice a slow drip of negative thoughts brings me down by the end of Tuesday.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Rumi
What if shame
was a cloak
worn by the sensitive in heart
who no one saw
when they were wee
And what if they,
empathic and open
took in the anger
of parents in Pain
While driving I turn on the classical radio station KUSC hoping to hear comforting music that will wrap me like a fleece blanket today. The station, which I haven’t listened to in decades except for the occasional catastrophe (not the daily little ones) plays a march.
Not a cheerful march…
Have you had a morning — one
where everything comes undone?
The phone doesn’t work, the email too
and dooming fingers are pointing at you?
I have. To top it off I lock myself out of my room.
At the phone store the wait is long
I sing the notes of…