Generations

Denial is a can of peas whose contents should never be indulged beyond the expiration date. Yet there I stood, evidence screaming reality at my eyes, their gaze steadfast upon the wailing baby girl before me in her bassinet. My mind then confidently knew that what lay there could have never come from briefest self-indulgence. Still, my heart wouldn't listen— And rightly so. I turned and faced a solitary window, which framed a cold and gray November day that froze as well the unrecorded moment. Though soft upon my parted lips came unbidden words: “I love you, dearest child”— knowing all that was yet to be, for here lay an open book in which life would write about a young girl’s timeless, playful mirth, but also test her brazen dreams and tireless hopes alike. On life’s other end, my mother wearies of her endless days and puzzles over life prolonged well past these ninety-seven years— asking with familiar eyes, undimmed by age, the reason why, which none can answer, and which none tries, and silence reigns. Then, soon enough both memories and questions fade, their cycles now complete. Mark B. Peterson, Any Poem/Any Form, December 26, 2013