This one is for my mother. She is 75 and with the spirit of a teen.
She used to be extremely happy not so long ago- at least she seemed so.
But she isn’t anymore and I don’t know what to do. I do not know how to heal all the hurt which she has been carrying around.
If I could I would open you like a suitcase and unpack all the hurt folded and wedged in every available space that you keep arranging and rearranging everyday for some journey you can’t force yourself to take and re-pack it with rainbows and eight- pointed stars.
The wind asks the cherry tree to wake me up by rapping on my window with its overgrown branch. It wants me to judge the orchestra with the air around as one colossal woodwind instrument played by the inept fingers and mouth of the trees and windows left open. The sound that they produce is similar to the wailing of a mother who lost all her children and not a symphony as he wants it to be.
I took my city dreams to bed. After a night of passion, we lie side by side languid fingers tracing the contours of my soul I know what I seek does not exist in that time warp. Now, the phantom that you see opening a portal back to that old church steeple is me.
Even though I am not politically inclined, I couldn’t help posting the above image, as I have been seeing some people still not accepting that the governance failed and things spun out of hand.
Everyday, I get to hear the death of a friend or an acquaintance, often young and without any co-morbidities.
All I am left with are unanswered whys and hows.
I saw death crying in the corridor, of the hospital, leaning on the shoulder of the soul he came to collect, overwhelmed by the pyres that burned from daylight through nightfall & the silent cries of the spirits with none to hold their hand as they gasped