melissaahowells
521,429 poems read
It Came Upon Me All Too Clear
The Carpenters remade "Ticket to Ride" and
I think I'd like one. This season of light is too dark for me.
"Do I burden you with my silence?" he asked.
"No," I said.
But, I lied.
It is just that it is Thanksgiving, I was thinking.
Why do you have to be so like them?
The old family, still sitting with me at this table.
Always the adult child trying to fix the unfixable.
The week after Thanksgiving,
an eviction notice delivered to my neighbor. She tossed the paper back,
defiantly in their faces. "I'm not taking this," she said.
Sigh.
Disaster averted.
Friend preserved,
I'm momentarily protected from loneliness
in a place where distance is crammed
between people who live in close proximity.
This season of light is too dark for me.
The Carpenters remade "Ticket To Ride,"
and I think I'd like one.
The annual dinner at my brother's house looms on the horizon.
Christmas has become for me, the season of birth and death.
I was born in a blizzard, the day after Christmas.
My birth, misbegotten.
My Mother fearful of marriage and pregnancy.
My birthday, in the past, often overshadowed by family drama
outstripping Peyton Place.
The death of my Mother made me unofficially an orphan.
Her death made my birth insignificant.
Her death branded Christmas.
I now watch other people, studying them.
Their Mothers all above ground.
I think
you are so damn lucky.
You have time
for the questions, for frivolity,
for mundane chatter.
You have Christmas every day of the year for the asking.
This season of light is too dark for me.
The Carpenters remade "Ticket To Ride,"
and I'd like one.
Melissa A. Howells/ Meloo, Tilt-a-World, Copyright December 6th 2010
Assisted by my love, Buddy. Thank you sweetheart.
I think I'd like one. This season of light is too dark for me.
"Do I burden you with my silence?" he asked.
"No," I said.
But, I lied.
It is just that it is Thanksgiving, I was thinking.
Why do you have to be so like them?
The old family, still sitting with me at this table.
Always the adult child trying to fix the unfixable.
The week after Thanksgiving,
an eviction notice delivered to my neighbor. She tossed the paper back,
defiantly in their faces. "I'm not taking this," she said.
Sigh.
Disaster averted.
Friend preserved,
I'm momentarily protected from loneliness
in a place where distance is crammed
between people who live in close proximity.
This season of light is too dark for me.
The Carpenters remade "Ticket To Ride,"
and I think I'd like one.
The annual dinner at my brother's house looms on the horizon.
Christmas has become for me, the season of birth and death.
I was born in a blizzard, the day after Christmas.
My birth, misbegotten.
My Mother fearful of marriage and pregnancy.
My birthday, in the past, often overshadowed by family drama
outstripping Peyton Place.
The death of my Mother made me unofficially an orphan.
Her death made my birth insignificant.
Her death branded Christmas.
I now watch other people, studying them.
Their Mothers all above ground.
I think
you are so damn lucky.
You have time
for the questions, for frivolity,
for mundane chatter.
You have Christmas every day of the year for the asking.
This season of light is too dark for me.
The Carpenters remade "Ticket To Ride,"
and I'd like one.
Melissa A. Howells/ Meloo, Tilt-a-World, Copyright December 6th 2010
Assisted by my love, Buddy. Thank you sweetheart.