Go

She is ready for the journey but
she's packed too much. The weight of
what she sees as wasted time will bind her
to the place she's wrongly thought was home
for all these years.

We try to tell her that she's
got eternity to make it up, if making up is needed,
but we're of the mind that it's a grand illusion,
that she's done her best with what she had,
she's faced the challenges of life and loss and sadness
with commitment most mere mortals could not conjure.

We try to ease her mind, release her to the upward call,
and all the while we know it isn't ours to decide.
The ride will come for her (and sooner rather than
according to our wishes) but even so we hate
that she must wait a second longer than is necessary,
putting off the bliss, postponing rapture and reunion
we have always known existed
but so often acted like it was a myth.

What does she wait for? Reconciliation or some pronounced
wise words that will erase a wrong or set relationships
onto a better path? Screw that. Just rise, dear daughter
of the King, and meet His open arms.
He'll sort the rest out, never fear.
He'll comfort us, he'll take the place you've held so long;
he'll mother us, sweet Mama.

Go. Enjoy the journey.
Let us know,
somehow,
that all is well,
the way you did
when we were little,
waking,
frightened,
by our dreams.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017