Journal Entry, April 25, 2018
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April 25, 2018
Of time Past-
I cannot discard you (memory)
no matter how far I push you away
you come c r e e p i n g like a wild vine
deep in the corridors of my mind you grow . . .
I wish you would depart
but NO- I am viewing you in technicolor
like a movie well played . . .
It is the death of my mother-
her time has run out
"call your family" said the doctor
and I did- I called each one
one who did not come- my nephew
my sister said- "he is afraid of death"
(who isn't) . . .
he was a grown man not a child
mother died -
a sweet beloved bird f l u t t e r e d away
quietly- just as she had lived her short life
(I have held my thoughts to me . . .)
When he was a small baby
my mother purchased for HIM
all his diapers, formula, food, toys and clothes
she paid for the rent of an apartment
she was the prime babysitter for years and years
but HE could not come on the day of her D E A T H
a grown man could not pay his respect
I have never forgotten- never forgiven
(maybe I should . . . )
and I can only talk about it in my journal
n e v e r to my family-
so I keep it inside of me to come creeping
to make me angry again and again and again
Outside birds are chirping and a gentle breeze blows
perhaps a walk will make this memory
depart or at least f a d e - (why am I weeping ?)
__________________________
April 25, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Journal Entry, April 25, 2018
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1016-823-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Entered in the contest Best Free Verse in April 2018
(not for a contest) sponsor, Laura Loo
Second Place
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2018
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