On the Eve of Mama's Birthday

I thought it was another of the multitude of things:
the particles of drama, quarks of quirks that make this
place a challenge I can tolerate with promised grace
but without much left over by the end of day. As tempting
as it is to smooth the wrinkles of my words and make it sound
as if my present state of mind is overblown, I am
too honest, I'm afraid. And yet tonight I realize
that nothing of the normal nastiness may be to blame
at all. Perhaps it is, instead, the fact that in the morning,
I will wake up to the first of Mama's birthdays in my life
that will not have her voice, her breath, her joy.

I hadn't really planned on that.

The rest is ordinary stress I recognize as Life, at least
for now. Although I often do not know my place or what
my role should be at any given minute, I adjust
(and fairly quickly, since I get such frequent practice).

But how do I adjust to nothing

when the something, when the someone,

was so dear?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Bridge

Like a bridge that's built to give a little

under stress, allow for weather and for weight,

I wonder how much more this little heart

can take today. The heaviness. Concerns,

catastrophes that build, one sitting nicely on

the one below. You know at some point it

will topple over, you just hope you're not

there underneath the load, that something,

someone will have grabbed your hand and

pulled (at least) a moment sooner, and offered

you a hug, a touch, a glass of wine, some oxygen,

a pillow to prop up your head, a foot rub,

pleasant music, candles maybe, something

nice to eat, a smile, a poem, warm cloth

to wash the dirt away, a bandage for that scrape,

the promise that there's someone on the earth

that cares and understands that little heart

with so much love to give it hurts.

(c) Ellen Gillette 2018