Thoughts on a Plane

Sitting on this chilly plane I pray the babies will stop crying

and I wish I had the energy to make up stories for the strangers all around.

A June flight got changed to
include a SEVEN hour layover
in Las Vegas. Ugh.

They chuckle at the videos they’re watching on their phones

or talk or doze. The engine drones,

my eyelids shut but not before a sudden thought astounds.

Is someone watching me instead

and making up a story that explains why I have left the ground?

Would I be the star, the heroine, the damsel in distress?

Whatever their imaginations be, I’ll bet they’d never guess

that I am sitting here wrapped up inside

the clothing of the dead,

which sounds a bit dramatic but is true.

Leaving Vegas, I am wrapped in Mama’s sweater

warm inside the heaviness that hung on cancer-ravaged

bony arms there at the end.

We’d never seen her thin although she said she was, in school.

The sweater isn’t stylish,

not my color, doesn’t match with what I am wearing but I thrill

to think that Mama,

like she did when I was young and sitting on her lap, still

wraps her arms around me now and then.

When my husband’s sister died,

the clothes she’d bought to keep up with whatever size

she was that month hung, waiting, in the closet

until Mom said take whatever. I’ll just give away the rest.

Her jeans caress me now,

a pair I never saw her wear or don’t remember

but they’re soft and stretch enough to cover my vacation sins.

In life, though family, we were never best of friends

but in her jeans now

I am grateful for the grace that taught us to at least pretend.

Leaving Vegas and the desert far behind

no money lost, no money won,

and if again I travel there it will be much too soon

which sounds a bit dramatic but is true.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

Note: Riding on the airplane I jotted down a few notes, that turned eventually into a poem for my writing group, then changed a little more as I read it to them.

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

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Shake Them Up

Destiny Souza, age 15, got into a guy's car
outside a water park in Stuart, FL with her
friend Kiera Medina, also 15. They
were prostituted and given drugs
for a week; Medina was
run over and is in the hospital.
Destiny has now run away
from a holding facility,
having expressed to her mother
that she wished it had been her
who was run over. Pray for her.

I'd like to shake them,
slap them,
send them to their rooms
without their suppers

or their phones.

Shave their hair off
like they did to women
who collaborated with
the enemy in France, and
buy their clothes
for several years
from Goodwill,
yard sales,
thrift stores, better yet,
they have to make them
for themselves.

The cost for looking.
Heartache, worry,
mothers' eyes that cut this way
and that until the Bad Guy's
caught, he might be out there,
might be looking for another
victim.

He blew a kiss,
they got into the car,
he didn't make them.
What he made them do
the next day and the next,
that's punishment and more,
and I am sorry, anguished
at their suffering

a little bitter too.

I wanted them to be
a cautionary tale.
Don't wander off!
More safety, see, in numbers,
just be Good and Sweet
and always look both ways
before you cross.

But they weren't good
and they weren't sweet
and though they bit off
more than they could chew
and though, as children, couldn't
fully realize the consequence
of such stupidity, I think of
mothers weeping in the night
in fear of what was going on,
and now they weep because

they want to blame it all on him,
and Can't
Quite
Do it
and if
he is not the only one to blame
then maybe they are guilty too.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Mother's Milk

Her baby's only five months old

http://www.magforwomen.com/
7-benefits-of-breastfeeding-for-mothers/

but she's about to cut him off.

He's cutting teeth, and clearly she's

afraid that he will bite her as he feeds

and sucks the nutrients she's made

without an ounce of effort, miracle

of milk and mammaries.

So many happy memories for me,

times four, there's nothing like it.

but I'd be hard put to put it into words,

the magic of a baby nursing

at the breast, exchange of more than

milk and comfort, love and touch.

the heat, hormonal chemistry of

feeling good, the satisfaction of

the rolls of fat around those baby legs,

dregs drained at two-hour intervals,

then four, then more and add the

cereal, the little jars of peas and carrots.

Starting off, though, you will always know 

it was your personal ambrosia nourishing

this perfect little part, the best of who

you are. I didn't tell her to keep nursing -

not my business or my place.

But I am thankful for those months

when no one held or fed my babies

quite like me. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014