The Beginning of the End

It’s been 13 years since the sun has last risen.

I remember its rays encircling her now auburn hair as if she were Mary the mother of Jesus.

But, she was my Mother

though she did keep treasures and follies hidden in her heart.

I couldn’t sleep in the chair next to her sprawled out body any longer.

Three or maybe four lifetimes had passed since I had let myself sleep on a bed.

That night I couldn’t take it anymore.

My cramped up body needed some R&R more than the fat man needed to lose some weight to not get halfway down the chimney and pull a Pooh stuck in a hole scenario.

She fell that night.

Lost in slumberland at the other end of the house,

I did not hear her crying out for me

It was though one who had spoken out for many voiceless lives had lost her own words inside of air.

The next morning, she told me of her night’s mishap.

An angry sun cried through the window that morning encircling her auburn hair like a halo.

But, it was not as red as her red, marbled foot and leg from the fall.

At her request, I had gone to the doctors appointment a few weeks earlier.

At the ER, the staff came in to see why I was crying so uncontrollably.

“Her leg is going to have to come off,” I yelled.

I was told she had good pulses in her leg and foot.

She would be fine.

Right.

I was right.

These moments were the beginning of the end.

I was right about her leg.

So, it began…

To be continued…

Susan in the Middle

Why must everything be a drama queen story

I feel like I live in the Spanish soap opera I had to watch in university days

Of course, I wouldn’t want to live in the French soap operas of high school either-

How dare you hug me Jean! I’ve only known you 5 years.

French soap operas definitely don’t live up to there reputation.

Isn’t there a middle ground?

One that doesn’t kill my stomach like a hundred balloons were bursting inside?

If writing gets me through it, why isn’t it my go to answer?

Off I go now.

The Crohns’ and IBS are calling-toll free.

ReRape

How innocent is a flower

after being plucked a half dozen times?

Or a snowflake that has already melted

on a tongue?

How rosy are the cheeks

of a Holocaust survivor during their camping trip?

Or a worn to the bone mother of nine

who can’t recall which end of the blush brush

paints her pale skin haunting

her prominent cheekbones?

How many pens can a victim use

to tell what you have done ?

Or pages of paper-tear stained paper?

How many hells will you endure

before and after your death?

I don’t care.