I will grieve the memories
not made in this place.
I will let the ashes of hopes
Sift in wisps like fine sand,
Falling in desperate escape,
Between the fingers of my aching hands.
A pretty house, yes.
The aesthetics, pleasing—
Built to fill a need
To cook Thanksgiving and Christmas,
Those production number meals,
Of which picture post card
Memories are made,
—the brined turkey, the standing rib—
Yet this place remains a hollow shell, pretty, yes,
containing no memories made
Of laughter and holidays and meals,
Didn’t need that larger Christmas tree—
No need, no need—
A harsh lesson to learn—
There is such a thing
As aging out of a place—
Too old for patience,
I have not five or ten years
To see if memories be made
To turn this hollow, pretty shell
Into the home I hoped.
I gave you all my roses, The many colors I had. Cut them all from the bushes. I knew there would be no more, And I cut them for you.
The last few dozen blooms I cut them down for you. The bushes are dead now.
They will bud no more. I double, triple checked. The limbs snap crisply in dryness, Easily between my weakened hands. No supple green within. A single snap finishes each limb. And so finishes each bush.
Through wisps of thin streaming clouds, The last full moon of the decade Looked down on me and seemed to nod. Why? I’m not sure. I thought and tried to puzzle it out. The decade? Perhaps. Did this last full moon wish me To think about this decade?
What ten years can bring: A wife battling ovarian cancer For her life and loosing; Loosing myself along the way And finding me and loosing me All over again; A profession left in disgust For the pleasure of retirement; A daughter nearly lost and then regained. Talk about water swirling slowly down the drain. But it swirls no longer. The ground leveled. The tub fills. I have finally grown into my skin.
I look to the moon again and she seems to nod Once more. From somewhere, I smell a faint Scent of narcissus. Yes, it would be easy. Play the fool once more and return to that place, find beauty and comfort In blue skies And soft grasses by mountain lake, Breathing in the sweet narcissus scent, Pretending for a little while That everything offered was true. But brimstone to my soul would it be. Leave the blue skies, the soft grasses, the mountain lake, The scent of narcissus behind. This I must do or my soul I would lose.
Images of the year Drift in my mind Like so many Snowflakes melting In a cold rain. My blood turns icy With so much frozen regret.
My dog stops. We’ve reached a crosswalk. Unlike me, she’s learned Her lessons well. But she reminds me The years of regret are done, So we walk on since no traffic comes.
The sun peeks out, Deciding it’s safe, She comes out all the way To warm and cheer us. My dog looks up at me And seems to smile.
This year will be done. Yes, soon, this year will be done.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 