I am so very blue
just don't know what to do
in a room with boxes piled
full of notebooks, books and other things
of past lives and dreams, forgotten
now it seems or frozen in my heart.
It might be the transition time,
my daughter was here and now she's gone.
Back at school and so much more
grown and wise, finding her way.
Now we are alone again:
My shy husband, her stepfather, once a middle child,
pouts at first when she comes, our delicate balance
upset, the terms of our peace undone, but then he succumbs to the magic of her
presence. She is beautiful and young and strong.
She loves us and laughs at us. He tells her stories and she laughs
or shakes her head. They make fun of me and she helps him pretend the
beautiful hemp rug he ruined in the wash is not missing.
We must find our center again in the fresh emptiness she left behind.
We must weave a new peace, await the subtle bonds, renew the balance of of our separate
and together ways.
He always waits for me. I am the older child. He waits for me to find my rhythm so he can play the drums.
And I am lost, shaken by the losses of so many years, the pain of loss rekindled by
my daughter's going. He knows; my little brother husband knows.
He is waiting.
(He said he would buy me another rug.)