no coffee to fix but mine in the morning no meals to prepare that were barely touched no tv blasting in the living room no keyboard clicks from his bedroom no small talk nor shouting no witnessing anxiety attacks no gasping for breath when he tried to walk no listening patiently to talk of impending death no goodnight hugs or kisses no one to share my paintings with no genuine praise of my budding work no one but me in his and my home silence pervades every room and, oh, how loud the quiet can be
‘tis said the meek shall inherit the earth that leaves me out... but I know a woman whose meekness knows no bounds as does her kindness her sweetness her ability to survive a wicked mother a cowed father childhood abuse
sold to the only bidder who didn’t know how to care for a woman of glass plagued with migraines fragile health an unfulfilling marriage the death of a daughter— yet she still stands and smiles and laughs and when we talk asks how I am before I can ask her
I see the network of cracks but can do nothing just witness the day she finally shatters... and grieve
I talked with my good friend Nora today, and it brought to mind this poem I wrote for her a couple of years ago. I never shared it with her because I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I’m happy to say she’s still hanging in there.
