Sometimes she's young,
working in NY's garment district,
enslaved by it's demands,
"I must go. Gotta get to work." she says
holding her purse, packed
with a nightgown and the TV remote control.
Other times she says she's 103. Old,
tired but proud that life endured for so long.
Most times, she's simply not sure
of words, people or where she fits
living in flashes of past and future,
the present - a dream.
But there seems to be a knowing that goes beyond
the mind, recognizing life,
relations and things better left behind.
I see this in her tenderness
when she looks deeply in my eyes,
I feel it in the things she mentions
and those she (purposely?) declines.
Makes me wonder about life.
Does it cling until it's worn
invisible garments torn to shreds
exposing its naked essence
as if to say, "Yes, this is me undressed."
Makes me wonder about death,
patiently waiting for her,
watching her work out
to unravel within.
She lingers in the center of her universe,
I linger in mine.
Neither one of us understands.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)
I haven't been around much. Family and others all came to say goodbye to mother-in-law. Been so busy. But m-i-l is still here. Seems to actually be getting better. Life and death know no balance, they love surprises.)