If you’re reading this, I know you still care for me.
Hate is synonymous with love, so thank you for being out there, somewhere, looking me up.
I look you up, too.
If you’re reading this, I need you to know that I’m afraid we’ve missed our chance at one last try.
One last try before we die.
If you’re reading this, I need you to know that I’m here, waiting for you.
And for those of you who just happen to be reading this:
Seize the moment and reach out to your long-lost you-know-who.
YOU
are terrified
by what
makes
America
great.
YOU
want to regulate
my uterus,
but regulating
your gun
is too
personally
invasive.
YOU
white
Christian
Republican
nationalist
who
pathetically
brag
about
revering
Jesus
guns
and
babies
think
YOU
have
power
over
US.
YOU
right-winger,
neo-confederate,
alt-right,
skinhead,
Ku Klux Klanner,
forget that
Jesus
was a
selfless, radical
Jew
who defied
oppressors like
YOU
and protected
the rights and
dignity
of the
oppressed
like
US.
YOU
who violently marched
in Charlottesville
so
YOU
could
save America
by
uniting the
white right,
chanting
“You will not replace us,”
and
“Jew will not replace us.”
YOU
neo-nazi,
anti-semitic,
confederate flag bearer,
dare to expect
Jesus to save
YOU?
Perhaps
Jesus
should send
YOU
to “Camp Auschwitz.”
YOU
care
about
babies in the womb,
but once they’re born
YOU
care not a whit.
YOU
claim
to
love
babies
but
YOU
do nothing
as babies
are shot to death
every minute
of
every day.
YOU
patriots
who despise
Jews,
Blacks,
Democrats,
and
LGBTQ,
fantasize
about
hanging
US.
YOU
are
laughably naïve.
Because
try as
YOU
might,
YOU
are
already
being replaced
by
all
of
US.
On this day
carved out
for mothers,
motherhood
begets maternal
bonds.
Push,
push,
push
the hourglass
away.
The sand,
the mother,
the child,
all
flowing
down,
down,
down.
And the sand
is boulder heavy,
from brunches that
never happen,
to non-existent flowers
and sentimental
cards that are
never sent
and never
received.
Like an hourglass,
I measure the
intervals of time.
Time left,
the end of time,
the passage of time.
Two fragile bulbs
of glass,
and
free-flowing
sand.
A reminder of
the thing
to come.
This time
shall pass.
Time heals
all wounds,
you’ll see.
But I don’t see
the healing,
just the passing.
And then
a phone call
from the
littlest ones
singing “Happy
Birthday,”
even though
it’s
Mother’s Day.
There is
nothing,
nothing,
nothing,
that
compares.
As they sing,
the hourglass
fades and
melts away.
This is your birthday poem,
but I was never good at rhyming.
The matchy-matchy timing stunts my creativity,
my wordsmithing,
and forces me to lay down words
where they don’t belong,
stuffed next to other words that
aren’t the right fit.
Timing isn’t always everything,
but maybe in our case, it was.
All those years ago, you told me you were haunted by one looming question.
Who do I want to walk hand-in-hand with along the beach when I get old?
It prompted me to ask myself the same darn thing.
And it haunted me too.
Although you never specified what beach, or how many beaches,
or the beach location.
You, the one who was so prodigious at planning,
had no plan.
Yes, yes, yes,
we chose to walk the beach together for the rest of time,
although time was on our side back then.
And even though I walked Myrtle Beach with you that day in full
burka-like regalia,
we walked it.
Even though you walked way ahead of me in total embarrassment,
I wasn’t far behind.
And admittedly, the sun is not my thing, so the beach only works for me
in the rain,
or the clouds, or the dark.
And okay, I also have a water phobia, which I’m sure
you did not take into account when you asked yourself
that life-altering question.
And neither of us ever expected the life storms that often
engulfed us like tidal waves.
The seismic swells were way more than
we were prepared for.
Those rolling breakers pushed so much water onto the beach,
it was unwalkable and left sand and sediment,
when the waves washed back out.
But we weathered the storms and the tidal waves
didn’t we?
Because yes, the tides transported the sand
and the sediment,
and reshaped the beach,
and the shoreline.
But the terrifying rogue waves also created
unexpected estuaries.
Beautiful and productive watersheds
that protected us
from the full force of the waves
and the winds
and the storms.
Even though I was on one side and
you were on the other,
I realize now, in the twilight of our lives,
that your beach was a dream,
but the answer to the question
was real.
And that, unlike books,
we are not headed for a happy ending.
Not because we don’t want it
or don’t deserve it.
But because the waves are churning up our beach,
our circle of life,
and the saga of our ocean.
I know now that our sometimes pebbly,
sometimes sandy shore
is a fateful,
frightful, beautiful mess.
Yes, an enduring and extended metaphor
for us.
Copyright © 2015-2024 Blog.terischure.com (The Teri Tome). All rights reserved.