August 12, 2018

The confluence of recognizing my mother's birthday, standing in her still unsold home, and listening to The Jayhawks' "Gonna Be A Darkness" and Tanya Donelly's "Christopher Street" on my drive home this weekend.

An Empty Room

One day we all must face an empty room,

A story meaning something to just you.

A stream of strangers to come passing through,

Their future slide shows block the view.

 . . . And a light shall pour through the window.

See the flushed young woman, swoopy dress,

Hand on belly, conscious of how she's blessed,

Dreaming of mobiles, life of a circus,

And border in robin's egg blue.

. . . And the light pours through the window.

Next, the sullen black greasy-haired teen,

Hands in pockets of clichéd sagging jeans,

Calculates how rapper/C.O.D. scenes

Will buffer little sister too.

. . . And the light pours through the window.

A man with a bad comb-over enters,

Picturing his big screen front and center,

"A couch that reclines," he also mentions,

To a woman he calls a shrew.

. . . And the light pours through the window.

Days go by a stooped woman lingers,

Thin sewing needles in her thin fingers,

Imagines her rocking chair and Singer,

And yet the offer will fall through.

. . . And light still pours through the window.

So you stand there in the vast emptiness,

Conjuring her books,  the organized mess,

Boxes of cards, photos, that attested

To legacies they both left you.

. . . And the light pours through.

Envision handwritten notes everywhere,

URL's for the interests you shared,

Email address for all whom she cared,

And links to the work that you do.

. . . And the light pours.

Thumb drive copies of thumb drives once copied,

Some artifacts once kept on a floppy,

All the intelligence she embodied,

Long cleared out, but not from you

. . . And the light.