Her Home

The house that was her home.
The bedroom, in that double bed,
and she, so all alone. Her head upon
the pillows, sadly weeping to one side.
The covers, barely dented by her size.
And then she opened up her eyes
and looked again at me. I saw there,
so much more than just her grief.
The scores she'd never settled
in the days and years that had
become her life.

There was a puzzlement, some great,
unstated need for understanding.
Outdistancing the pain that
kept her there. But I couldn't explain
even then, why it was - that I was
the only one there who seemed to notice.
Or to take the time, as all her life was ending,
to be there for her, even through this blast -
the last (oh please) of all her suffering.

It was as if her eyes were emptying.
Seeking mine for space and time -
continuance of being. She wasn't
through. Not even then. For in
her eyes, horizons started opening.
As if eternity were there within her reach.
A gentle touch - it seemed so all-encompassing
to me. Not a word was uttered, yet
the message came through clear.
She'd always known my inner ear
could hear just what she thought.

"I'll do what I can, Mama."
It was all I could give her just then.
No promises I made could e'er amend
the pain she felt inside, now unconcealed.
I couldn't help but feel it too, for I had lived
for all too long beside her there, within
her aging shoes. Inheriting that empathy,
that seemed to feel too much, too much
to bear.

There was no rush, and yet there was intention.
Intimate and serious, the fates would have their way.
As all the Earth supported just such mother/daughter
bonds of deep affection. Webs were laid in ancient
spaces. Patterns worked within each hint of lace.
Woven by some other, tender hands. Knitted in
the essence of their hearts. Knowing, always knowing,
that the pain would start again. Helpless to avoid
the gain and loss that ice cold intellects created.

It never was a game at all, you see.
Invisible, the ancient mysteries still live us on.
Civil never meant a thing, awash in industry.
Business first increased their thirst for more.
Why is that so many of them still believe in war?
She found it all so horrifying, even as she
breathed herself away. Knowing that it never
could have gone another way, not there in her.
Guessing that her visions would come clear
again within the nether worlds.

Memories alive within her mind.
Of times gone by when others seemed
so gentle and so kind. Clear, the sight
of all her children playing happily.
No, it hadn't been a fantasy.
Engrossed within the mystery of nature.
Before the intellectuals that schooled them
murdered all their wonder in this world's
stature.

Civil wars, the battle zones.
Children torn to soon from homes
so cherished. Live too long, and all
the great ideals seem to perish.
As if there'd never been a newness
to creation after all. Or as if all
those scientific scrawls upon the walls
of prisoned opposites could ever
make more sense than this -
the innocence that lives within
each moment of real love's experience.

Blinded by the lightning flashes.
Electric flights that never really
turned into communication.
The house that was her home.
The bedroom, in the double bed,
so little now and oh, so all alone.
Her head upon the pillows, sadly
weeping to one side. The covers,
barely dented by her size.

And then she opened up her eyes
and looked at me again. I saw there,
so much more than just her grief.
And learned that all the scores
had never mattered much at all.
A whisper in the wind, as if the heavens
wept along with all the grief within my heart.
And words were spoken, heart to soul,
that simply dispensed all the living woe.
The angels came to make amends.
The message was too true to change.
"The love we live is all that ever matters..."

? Michaelette ?

5/2/2004
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .