melissaahowells
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I have thoughts in my head I'd like
to share with them. I can't. They're dead. Earlier than most. They are... Beyond the reaches of healing. Beyond the shores of forgetfulness. Yet, I can not forget them. The nuisance of the minutia I wish to share threatens to remind me of them, daily. How they did not take care of themselves. How they did not take care of me. How, in ways small and large, they were incapable of caring. For they'd been damaged by something as indiscernible but palpable as life. Together they were so miserable as once man and wife. And, at times, miserable with the responsibility of children. What do I want? Its a question they never would have asked. I want them back with all the troubles of the past that having them alive entails. But it won't happen. I know this. I don't have super powers. Lapsed mortals do not resurrect. Time does not lapse backward. The dead don't hear in the present. They merely malinger. So, I talk to them in dreams. I talk to them in poems. Tears of frustration rise, some days, in my eyes. I pretend it is the wind causing them. It is not the wind. They were both larger-than-life personalities. Even on family vacations, improbably, people, everywhere, knew them. They made large foot prints while they were living. Charming, disarming lots of gullible strangers. But, taking a different tone at home. They are both ashes, now. Past the pains of, the plane of existence. Burnt offerings, to the Gods, but are they worth my forgiving? In a dream I speak to them: Why didn't you take care of yourselves better? (Answer me! Please?) On paper I write to them: Why didn't you take care of me? (No answer.) Copyright April 4, 2013 All Rights Reserved By This Author Melissa A Howells Meloo from her tilt-a-world Re-edited and hopefully improved April 6th, 2013 Vote for this poem |
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