The drooping flowers greeted me this evening as I returned from work. I’ll take any form of sincere acknowledgement that I can get. Sitting in a chair that is positioned directly across from the glass sliding door acts as a mirror that I’d rather not have to face. And then I venture off to rooms shared on Eugene, OR craigslist.
A passiveness that can speak volumes. Giving up your turn because the fear of not being understood rises up inside of you. Hours of regret, constrained to you like your shadow. And a lot of “what if’s?”
When dementia infiltrated my grandmother’s mind all we could do was wait and see where it would take her. It started with the youngest grandchildren and moved its way up the lineage. When it came to me I had seen it coming. For my mother it was different. The disbelief and melancholy I saw in my mothers eyes was enough to show me what its like to not be recognized by your own mother.
Tiny ripples in a pond, vibrating the lily pad homes of frogs. Dense moss, moist from the constant rainfall that captivates the area I inhabit.
Exchange of secrets, tucked beneath warm covers on a night different that others. A white candle, in a red jar, illuminates the distance between us. It glows til we come together.
Molded by howling winds, and bent by the rocks I was thrown against; my body has become an object welded by the natural. Layers unfold, blooming with the coming together of sun and showers. In the sweet summer it rises high above the ridges, dosed with alpenglow in the late evening. By the fall I am wilted, ready for a winter slumber.
I am a single ice cube, dropped into a steaming bowl of soup, trying to cool out the situation. My feet wander me towards places familiar, and through deep, lush, green forests when no one is looking. I love the interactions with others both, big and small. The missed faces that people hurry by. Cool nights, in a chair, by a bed, with a friend that I have missed.
I love those who once loved me, still do, and will at some point.