Flu Bug

Flu.
Flux, quick change from
being well to being sick.
Fluids, drink a lot of those
so as to unstop nose and prevent
dehydration.
Fluency, affected by the raspy voice
that's not my choice,
a tonal devastation.
Flugelhorn, a funny word and slang
for something so absurd it brought
on coughing fit.
Fluffy tissues, fluffy sheets,
fluffy sheep I count
as I go back to sleep,
fluttering eyelids dream
of superfluous flutes and
affluence, for when
you have the flu,
it's almost all that
comes to mind.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Two doses of azithromycin, and I see the light at the other end of the tunnel. Unless I'm dying, and the light means something else.

Z-pack

Sick,
ick,
catching up on sitcoms
I have never watched before,
Bryan Cranston as a silly dad
so different from his Breaking Bad
personna, coughing to my very core
as Z-Pack takes its time to fight
infection, no thought given to
my obligations and agendas,
world has managed to rotate,
revolve without my help.
How do the chronically diseased
stay sane, never feeling well,
no light, no peace, just pain
and bile and bitterness? At least
with me, there's hope that medication
will kick in by time the sun is high
again, that this will end.


(v) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Karen's Energy

If energy is like the water on the planet,
not diminished or increased since time began,
but only rearranged, expressed in different ways,
then the energy that passed into the air when
Karen breathed her last, must surely still be here.
Fierceness clothed petitely, bulldog in her
scrubs or running bridges, riding on the back of
Richard's bike, it will take several souls to make
up deficit, to find an outlet for the fight that
kept her going all these years beyond what would
have fallen lesser mortals long ago.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Bags

Response to graphic scenes in video
concerning plastic waste,
attempt to intervene with small step,
nothing drastic such as some
granola types would conjure
in organic cotton
and same Birkenstocks
they wore in college, but still,
the knowledge that
my grocery bags would choke
the fish and birds, pollute
the land and ocean set the notion,
stirred emotions,
prompted me to purchase
cloth bags, intention to use just them
until they fell apart and then buy more.
No need to ask for paper bags
(there's problems with
those too, you know)
and it's a good idea, not monumental
but a start in right direction.,
a bit of forward thinking.
Putting things away just now
it's obvious upon reflection
that my noble plan will only work
when someone thinks while
back at home to take
the bags along to store.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

**it Happens

Sounds better in French.

Life brings disappointments,                                
understatement summed
up with crude two-word phrase
about what tends to happen
(on the farm where we raised goats,
we shoveled piles of it, and did not
try to dress it up with softer words).
But there's a scale, with different levels of despair
at what life sends, how badly are our teeth
kicked in, how quickly rug
is pulled out from beneath our feet.
Finding long-lost CD of Bocelli and
anticipation of his serenade to so suitably
start off the day...and opening
the case to find, not emptiness, but
twanger (who has merits of her own,
but hardly met my expectation) rates,
I'd say, far down, the low end
of the spectrum. As does plan to run,
while nature superceded with a plan to rain.
Small disappointments, met with grace,
bode well because the big ones always come
and when they do, we're more prepared,
in some weird cosmic way, to meet them
at the door, and look them squarely in the face.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

It's Monday There

Somewhere in the western ocean
lies an island, an atoll, with no one
on it. It is my friend this morning,
waking to the horror! The shame!
Arriving late last night and focusing
on silly TV story, I forgot my duty,
obligation, sacred trust that I must
sit and make right, right away.
This comes to you from Baker Island,
where it's still just minutes before midnight.
If Jimmy Buffett can declare it's 5 o'clock
somewhere, why can't I take full advantage
of the fact that on that one sandy
spot of land, it is still Monday? Thus,
with license granted to poets and other
scoundrels, I'm there. It's rather warm
but the sound of the ocean is lovely
and the stars look so close, I think I
could touch them if I stretched a little more.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Suffocation

No one asked if this was what I wanted.

No one checked to see if this was what I had in mind when I signed up to take on roles I'd never studied for, for which instructions only come in languages I do not understand. How can I ever find success if they won't tell me what's expected,

no list of boxes to check off as each

deed's done? Running in too many and too varied

misdirections, going nowhere fast. And then at last, occasional vacation, short break, a little space, my lifeblood, but that first day back is killer, all the catching up on all the things they wanted 

me to do while I was gone, as if they've saved up 

stressful situations just to punish me for needing breath, 

for needing oxygen and room. It might be easier 

to just give in, hold out my arm and let them stick 

the needle in to drain my life once and for all, 

or scream the things within at top of lungs

as if they'd even hear me, as if they'd even care.

That would be weakness, though, betrayal of the

strength that's there so deep I only whisper of it

now and then, when rousted from deep sleep.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

All I can say is, wow. That is dark. And not necessarily a reflection of my own life, much less my life at the moment. But we all feel dark now and then, I suppose. Consider it venting. Momentary wallowing. There's a place for that, emphasis on "momentary." Can't live in the darkness. Too many creepy-crawlies there.

Brave Girl

Ladder, set in bed of truck.
So lifted up, she strains yet further
to squeeze out some caulk 
as coward (or the smart one, all, 
you know, a matter of opinion) 
works within, attending to
some lesser duty not requiring 
nerves of steel or opposite of
vertigo. He's hidden by the tree, 
and so ashamed, perhaps,
that passersby will only see 
and comment on the bravery
of the girl he only hired 
the other day
for just that reason.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Just the Right Escape

Brubeck opens
for Miles,
private concert
with a bit of
whiskey so smooth
it has no bite.
no bite at all.
Stretched out
under blanket
on a queen-size
at the Super 8,
AC lower
than she'd ever run it
back at home
after day spent
playing in the waves
that almost took her
out to sea, they were
so strong, eating hot dogs,
finding treasure in town's
thrift stores where
she is a stranger,
scalding shower.
It gets better than this,
she thinks,
but this is good.
This is really,
really good.
Miles agrees.
She can hear it
in his sad refrain.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Red, For Remembrance

Twelve roses on the highway where
the accident occurred. I wish that I
I had bothered with a second dozen
so that there would be thirteen, one
thorny stem for each year since his
passing, years with thorny ways as well,
but not bereft of many moments beautiful,
with tender joys expressed like petals
of the roses in my sad bouquet.
I pull off of the road and wait
for stoplights at each distant
end to help me out, hold back the busy
throng, give time and room to safely
walk into the middle. Long stems
drop at random intervals
across the lanes back to the car
without a backward glance. I sit inside a bit
and suddenly, when traffic passes once
more in its fury, some blooms violated
by the weight and speed are dragged so far,
so fast, it almost takes my breath
away. But when the constant moving pattern
sinks back to a momentary quiet, I see
that some still lay intact, at least until
another herd can thunder past, reminder of
the lasting things in life that won't be
stolen by such temporary things as death.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Jealous Boy

Some people so enshrine their

loved ones who are dead that they
become mere shadows, paper dolls of
who they were, the lives they truly led,
but understandable with one like Adam,
who could make us laugh as easily as make
us mad, who had the winning grin, the catcher's
keenness that was always plays ahead
in midst of baseball game. When angry, he'd lash out at sisters, me, his dad or brother, coming back in minutes for forgiving hug. He got into a fight once, had a shiner, too. Chagrined, he hid
away until I made him let me see,
but he was proud they fought as men, staying on their feet
and parting, once it ended, as close friends.
I only know of one who failed to be impressed
by Adam's winning ways, the jealousy so evident
it made me wince when seeing them together.
He must be twenty-nine now, same as Adam would
be had his life not ended at sixteen. I wonder if
he grew up well or if his bitterness at being less
than Adam ever healed. I wonder if he thinks
of him, the boy he sought to be but never could,
now that he's become a man,  as my son never will.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

How Are You?

(shattershards.blogspot.com)

 Howareyoudoing. Howareyou.  Howdoyoufeel.
Three questions often asked, sincerity and smile
with well-masked hope that our response will
fall into the comfortable categories they expect.
We rarely answer honestly, adhering to the code
of practiced falsehood. Good, good, we say. I'm fine. Maybe a sober, daring "hanging in there" only if the person knows us well enough to take a guess at current struggles, or if we're too on edge today to bother with the niceties our culture has required. But if I take a chance, reply I've had a lousy day,
how odd that so few ask for explanation. Just as well,
because there will be times when I am overflowing so
with joy I won't be likely to express it well with words,
and it won't matter, for the ones who really care,
already know the sadness sometimes in my heart,
already know my happiness, because it's shared.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Last Day

Aug. 19, 2000 fell on a
Saturday. Our son Adam was
in an accident early in the morning,
coming home from work,
on Aug. 20. He died Aug. 22.

I wasn't going to wallow this week,
didn't plan to focus on the feelings
of deep grief or loss or missing
him so much. But in the night I saw
the date there on the phone,
searched for a calendar
online to verify that yes, it was today.
A happy day, before the accident,
before machines connected silent
boy to something only vaguely
reminiscent of his life. Before all
that, there was this day. The last one.
But I didn't know it then.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Baby Donor

"Negative" is something I am positively

put off by, the why to this an obvious
distaste for rudeness, crudeness, and
complaining, draining attributes best left
to others, druthers being that they stay
so far away from me that I don't have
to hear their words, their put-downs,
pointing fingers, woe-is-me-ing. Except
I learned today that negative is good
in terms of blood and certain virus.
Cytomegalo, to be exact, and I don't have it.
Which means that when I donate blood,
they designate it for the babies who might
catch the flu-like virus otherwise. A baby
donor, it is called, and all the trouble
in the questions and the needle prick
is worth it even more, now that I know
my blood is saving babies. And speaking
of donating blood, whose lives
are being saved by yours?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I'm a slow bleeder and giving blood is never"fun" but when my granddaughter Jasmine and I saw the Big Red Bus parked outside Walmart today, I decided to just do it. I used to donate as often as I could, like clockwork, but I've gotten out of the habit in the past few years. Learning that I'm a "baby donor" gives me more incentive than the $10 Walmart gift card I received (but that was nice, too!).

Chip

Today's his birthday, high school romance that

was long enough (with feelings strong enough)
that he's remembered out of not that many more
(late bloomer that I was). Date of his birth the
same as Grandpa's, which endeared him at the time (despite his age) to Mama. Two or three years older, bit of a coup to have him like me and I learned a thing or two, no question. Ponytail and musical, fixing cars, photography. One nickname (Chip), two middle names (G.K.), three Roman numerals that made his dad a Jr. or a 2nd (somewhere in the Middle East). His mother not exactly well, if I recall, her cat named Dammit
(which was to sheltered child both cool and somewhat shocking).
What set Chip apart, perhaps, was that he saw potential
where the others mostly saw another skinny girl in band.
Holding hands that summer in his Austin-Healy he
glanced over and then past, to something better. Jaguar, red,
in car lot priced to sell, needed lots of work, but ran,
and when you have a chance to buy a Jag, that's quite
enough. Unrelated to our break-up not far down
the road (in weeks, not miles), it makes a better story
if you think he gave me up because he found his
dream, no longer having time or inclination to
waste time with silly girl, but that would be untrue, unkind.
I gave him up because of fear. Not of his actions or his words,
but his affect on me, the wildness I could sense was
coiled, lurking like that Jaguar waiting to spring off the hood.
Looking back across the forty years it's been, I know the
choice was good and right and best. But still I wonder if he
ever thinks of Fluff (I curled my hair one day and earned the name).
I hope that way back when, deep down, he understood.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Think back to high school. You were so young and unformed, so incomplete! But good memories, aren't they? You never forget the music, the names, those first fumblings at romance.

Negativity Gnaws

Negativity gnaws as all the flaws

http://www.irtc.org/stills/1999-02-28.html
"Picnic for Stringed Quartet"
by Eran Dinur
Apparently there was a competition
and this won 1st place.
Very cool. And strange.

of everything and everyone around me
seem to grow, inflating, grating on
my nerves which serves no purpose
other than reminding me that life's
too short to live a single hour
with all this sourness sucking out
the sweet and blinding me to what
I know to be reality: the good,
the kind, the love and hope and joy
that are for reasons I don't fully understand
hiding somewhere else today.
I know they're there, inside. Your laugh
would bring them out. Your touch would
make them stay, and negativity would
flee like bugs might scatter in a sudden light,
to find another crack in which to scuttle.
Without you here, however, I must
do the work myself, slow crawl out of
this hole as stringed quartet stands at
the edge and doesn't offer help but
plays a song I've never heard before.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

No Beach Today

My grandson just invited me

to join his mother, friend, and him
for morning at the beach. A simple thing,
but isn't life a series of such moments?
Tiny kindnesses and unexpected pleasures
that when strung together form a solid platform
we will stand upon one day. And looking back,
we see a lifetime with both ups and downs,
but every simple act of love stands tall
and shining in the memory, with every
hateful word and prideful spite against us
overshadowed, withering without attention.
I cannot go, this morning, to the beach,
but the fact that I was asked is almost,
almost just as grand as if I could. And
I won't have to take a shower, later,
to remove the particles of sand and wash
the salty water from my hair. I'd rather
have to do, of course, all that and more
because of what it represents - hours spent
with laughing, splashing boys, the sound
of waves and bird cries on the wind.
Today I have some other matters to attend to.
But I was asked. Invited. Made to feel
important, welcome, loved. Whatever else
I have to do today, I'll carry that along with me,
and if I listen closely, I can hear the birds,
boys laughing, squealing when a wave
has crashed so suddenly it caught them by surprise.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Death of a Computer

HP laptop, rest in peace,
perhaps to suffer the indignity
of yet another forced rebirth.
Scant quarter of a year ago,
I found you at a price so low
I thought your second-handedness of worth
but now you have betrayed; you will not start.
Computer geek took you apart
with something like perplexity
"This is a first! I'm vexed," said he.
And I the lucky one to whom it happened.
I left you there upon his table, saddened
though with money back for cord I hoped was able
to entice, turn on, seduce- but no, to be thus was not meant.
Sad washed-up HP, once so powerful, now impotent.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Bought for my granddaughter to use from a computer repair place I trust. "This is the first time we've had a problem with these refurbished HPs," the guy told me. "But it had to happen sometime. And you're the lucky one."

Haul's Well That Ends Well

From Lillington to Florida, and parents'
move from Siler City, here.
Daughter Uno to apartment and then out,
and into smaller second one, oh dear.
A bit of packing out in Texas with our Daughter Dos. Us into nice second floor apartment as we waited for the sale of leasers' home so they could close on ours, then mom-in-law into a condo, along with husband's sister, and ourselves into the house we'd visited so often in the last, what, twenty or more years? Today the daughter's move back
in with us, and I'm allowed to grouse a bit
with all these moves within this short
amount of time. Packing and unpacking,
throwing out and cleaning grime, I've had enough
of boxes, tape, and U-Hauls! Adding "mover"
to my resume, I'll do another day, but
just before I head to bed, exhausted from
accumulated stress of change and change
and change and change, I unwind here
a little bit, and have a glass of wine.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sweating Poet

I'm pretty sure that I appreciated coolness in the past.
I didn't need a test to teach a Lasting Lesson on important
traits like gratitude and patience. I had them. Didn't I?
Maybe leaky coil within the innards of the monster spitting
chilly air into the house was just a thing, one of those
things that happen in due course when corporations outsource
manufacturing to underpaid employees who are scattered
here and there across the globe, defects defying explanation
but which cost, since labor isn't covered by that warranty we have, an even hundred bucks times four. If God had wanted to
instruct me on the value of the money he has let me keep, then who am I to think that I could come up with a better way to spend it? I think it best to pay the man tomorrow (better, if it was today), and cool the house. The upside is, of course,
the water weight I'm losing as we speak.
Oh these, the problems of our privilege and status,
when the worst we have to bear is living for a day or two
in nice big house with unconditioned air.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Issues at Arby's

Meticulous man in fitted suit folds empty paper
cup that once held ketchup, tucks it into what
had held his fries. each one eaten by itself in small
well-measured bites with perfect teeth he flosses
twice a day. The paper on the tray he folds
in half, and half again, and two times more
until it looks to be a wee phone book for fairies
that he then inserts into the carton snugly, smugly
pleased he fit it all in such a tiny space. This is a man whose inner voice is screaming that he's tired of being neat and tidy, living all alone, but the other, steady
voices in his head still drown it out. The messiness
of women is exhausting. And if he married, as he long
ago had thought he might, what if the woman wanted children?
Dirt of all kinds clinging to their clothes and fingernails and noise.
The noise he couldn't take, he knows this absolutely,
even if he somehow could adjust to all the rest, the
tears and touching, evil smells, the drama.
Better to remain a bachelor, pretending to ignore
that woman's scrutiny from one booth over, watching from
the corner of her eyes. He cannot tell if she's impressed
by him or not, the way he picks up every crumb.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A neat gentleman I observed at Arby's was probably not this uptight at all, but as I watched him, imagination took over.

A Thing to Point To, Part Two

Some can point to buildings reaching to the sky
as crowning glory of career, or be remembered
for successful plan they commandeered to make
the world a better place in which to live. Benefactor
gives a million, changes everything, we're told. An
author's name there upon the spine of book,
forever stamped in gold. A bit of jazz from years
ago still echos in the airways. Such achievements
given to humanity that stand the test of time, and
what will yours be? Where is the thing you point to,
as the measure of your meaning, why you were born?
If only that you gave another joy and love and
kindness, peaceful place in which to curl into the warmth
of an embrace, perhaps that's quite enough, and more
than most will leave behind.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Thing To Point To, Part One

Subtle need we must be born with,

pointing to accomplishment, the drive

to say "I did this" whether we are

five and hold some garish drawing up to

parent, proudly showing off the way

we stayed within the lines, or older,

sewing clothes or planting gardens. We

point to house we built or door we

stained, perhaps with fanfare, most times

not, but still, there is a moment when

we pause and hope for some response

from those beside us; just a wee "well done"

fills up the space. Whatever age we are, the

good grade splashed across an essay,

room with the tasteful decorations,

meal prepared from some new recipe,

report completed under deadline, speech

given, execution of a plan that worked,

article with byline, yard mowed neatly,

trees trimmed and limbs hauled to the curb, 

dress hemmed, performance ended with a bang. 

Some achievements warrant standing O's 

but those are few and far between. Still, 

every day, the things we do, the care we take, 

the second mile we go accomodating others, 

these are things that wait, sometimes in silence, 

for scant recognition, gratitude, a simple nod to

time and effort and expended talent.

Medals are not necessary, nor a plaque

to hang upon the wall. All that we mostly

need is "thank you." Which, of course,

works in reverse as well. The things that others

do, the care they take, the second mile

they've gone accomodating us...how often

do we stand there mute in hope they'll

mention what a good job that we've done

while they are standing, hoping, for exact

same words to issue from our lips?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Rather Feeble Thursday Rhyme

Is it really only Thursday in the week?
And it's only August 8th? For when
I think of all that's going on, it seems
I've lived a month since July's end.
The list would be a bore and full of tension
with its ups and downs and (a word I like) its flux
but also good things I would like to mention.
Let's stick with them,
avoiding anything that sucks.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Melbourne Meltdown

Holmes Regional Medical Center,
Melbourne, Florida.
I've been to Melbourne several
times since 2000, but never
saw the hospital.

Chance route to unfamiliar fast food place
the GPS has found and traffic being what it is
my eyes glance over at the building at some distance to the north and there it is, so suddenly it takes my breath away and it is thirteen years ago. I'm back inside its gleaming rooms awaiting news
that skews things, shifts life on its axis, turns it upside down and inside out. He died there, in that building to the north, and as I hand my money over and receive the steaming bag of food, I wonder if the woman in the window is accustomed to such faces streaming tears with voice that sounds like
someone else's going through the motions,
thank you, have a pleasant afternoon.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Our son Adam died at Holmes Regional in 2000 following a car accident in Fort Pierce. Because of a head injury, he was airlifted to their trauma center where a neurologist could treat him. He received excellent care there before his death on August 22.

Yoga Challenge

Rodney Yee might be surprised,
he of the long dark braid and yoga DVD,
when at the point his soothing voice
instructs me in the living room
to find my center, listen to surroundings
as my body sinks into the earth upon
my rubber yoga mat (it's pink), that over
ocean waves behind him on some rocky
shore it's difficult to cancel out the
blaring from behind the bathroom
door as current hit provides the background
track to lengthy shower for a teenage girl.
A little boy with headphones on computer game
complete with shouts and laughs is also
not to be ignored as heaviness of legs is
duly noted. Keeping my face soft,
I make my torso long, then rise to face the day.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
(c)

Obscure Reference to Swiss Cheese

Politicos pull out the parts that suit them best,

pursuit of happiness, and liberty and life,
ignoring what they choose in all the rest.
Self-evident, it says, these truths too close
for comfort, for if we are all created equal,
creation is implied. And if Creator has endowed
us with these rights, then what about those
citizens who don't believe? Perhaps some
White-out might be helpful, but that
seems a little disrespectful to the learned men
who penned the masterpiece, I think. Erasers,
ineffective on the ink that's stayed intact
for all these centuries. We could, of course,
cut out the lines that don't comply with
all the current compromises, make the Declaration
something like a sheet of cheese from Switzerland.
Experiment in independence hasn't had
that long to prove itself, and time will tell if we
can make it work. The world is watching,
hoping (it would seem) that on a planet with
corruption everywhere democracy has not
survived, united country will, in fact, succeed.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Heidie Turns 11

Heidie last year with
her new little sister Daniella

The day that Heidie came into the world
eleven years ago, her daddy had a great big grin
upon his face that's never left, not where
this little girl's concerned, at least. Just something
special about daddies and their daughters.
She's growing up, the soon and coming move
to middle school the start of series of astonishing
events that mark the journey from her girlness
into womanhood. Today she got so many tiny
bottles of nail polish in every hue that she
could decorate one of the boats her daddy builds,
and girly hair things, sparkles that in future may elicit
groans instead of such delighted squeals. She's smart,
and sweet, respectful of her elders and a help
around the house, a princess who has listened
to her lessons well, who knows she's destined
for such greatness that she truly glories in her kid-ness
while she can. I hope, I pray, she stays that way
as long as possible, empowered to ignore the
pressures of the ones around who think that
being, acting older is the thing. There's time enough,
sweet Heidie, to grow up. But not just yet.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

15000

15000 people is a lot to hit a page of poems,
even if they thought it something else,
and finding this, were somewhat disappointed.
Gratifying, though, to think that anyone
would stop and read words from the heart
of someone that they do not know,
or think they do, and really don't at all,
or, in the case of very few, they do,
but (most surprising thing of all)
still love the poet and are patient
and encouraging, enthused about
her litany of life and love and hope.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sanjay Tried

Sanjay tried, the man from Gujarat,

Gujarat is on the NW coast
of the Indian subcontinent.
The people speak Gujarati,
which, when I heard it in the store
on speakerphone, was
lyrical and pleasant.

the strongest state in all of India
and I perceived it wasn't just his pride
in birthplace talking. When I asked
if he had gizmo for the opening
of car doors foolish woman
had just locked with keys and groceries
inside, he got to work, first trying
with some tools and then, when
joined by bearded plumber, with a wire.
The plumber came so close, so close,
before my husband called to say that
he was on his way. A good half hour
had passed since I had called his work.
Some jerk had answered, laughing at my plight
and evidently waiting to relay the message.
But Sanjay tried his best, walking back and forth
from car to customers who came into
his liquor store for beer and gin. And when the
plumber called it quits Sanjay invited me to stand
inside where it was cool and gave me samples
of a vodka tasting just like icing on a cake, and
something chocolate with rum that
young black man with dreadlocks favored
as did  I (which won't surprise those readers
knowing foolish woman well).


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Lengthy Introspection

I couldn't locate the artist's
name, but isn't this great?

It was years ago, with all the kids still home,
and all that "years ago" conveys: no graying
at the temples or lines etched upon my face,
much lighter than I am today, and fitter too,
a different skill set utilized at church and
homeschool teaching, living month to month
but paying bills on time. I sat with friends as
they complained about their jobs and husbands
and I thought, "I like my life, just as it is."
Smug bitch. I do not make the judgement lightly,
as I know exactly what was in my thoughts,
presuming that I had the corner on Things
As They Ought to Be, when in actuality,
by looking back from fifty-five I know it wasn't true.
Or maybe now I've raised my standards,
don't expect perfection from myself, as once before,
but do expect a little more from others. Imagination
always keen, I duped myself into believing
that the dreams I dreamed, the vision that I took
to be the Best, was what I really saw. Reality is harder,
tougher, bleaker but it's honest, and that's
better in so many ways. It wasn't that I tried
to lie to younger versions of myself, I thought
that things would change, that people would,
that we'd evolve together into something grand,
that anything that didn't measure up to what
I thought was better for their happiness, they'd
see as well, and work on, and one day we'd
be there, be the perfect couple, family,
the closely-knit enjoyers of each other's company
above all others, putting nothing else in front
of universal project of Just Us, shared goal
of hopes and dreams and plans. But that was then,
before life taught the tougher lessons in curriculum.
We scatter, move, achieve, sometimes we grow beyond
provincial concepts that once seemed to be the
highest that we could conceive. Somewhere along
the way, I learned that people never change
because it's right or prudent or because they love me
and of course will do the thing I ask or wish.
We do the things we want to do, that's all. Whether
heaven, hell or simply self, we please whichever one
we please because it's just the one we want,
with different reasons for the choices we have made.
At certain point we understand that no one's
going to make us be the good or noble man,
the kind and loving wife, the child who speaks respectfully,
the friend whose motivations are most pure,
and if we figure out that being such as these is
who we want to be, we will become them,
simply put, but not until that point.
Today I'd sit together with my friends and think,
"I like my life, just as it is," but not with blinders
on, no false impressions clouding what I see.
I see the things I hope will change, the wrinkles
that I trust will one day smooth, the faults and weaknesses
of those around (and mostly, in the mirror) but
the joy of letting go, no longer trying to effect
a change in anyone or anything but me? I wish
that I had understood it sooner, that the choices
others make are theirs alone.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013