It was an hour past midnight, as I sat there with you and the others,
listening to that rattle.
The room in silence, you were like a little girl with a baby voice.
It was always the wee hours when I would climb into bed with you;
old movies playing as you recalled your youth,
rubbing my head.
The nights are when I miss you the most.
Sometimes I think I hear you rattling round in the kitchen.
Finding a spoon to dig a scoop of ice cream out
and savor it slowly in silence,
like a child sneaking around,
all barefoot and big-eyed,
knobby-knees,
half asleep.
It’s just like you to sidle about.
Like the way the cats creep down the stairs
trying not to waken the dogs.
Or the way some storms roll in:
Silent,
swift,
and then a furious rage
before dying out.
I thought I saw you last night.
The house was dark.
There you were in an opera cape
on the landing.
Black and white glamour.
But it was just the drapes shimmering
as the wind pushed through the window;
it was just the dimness,
or my liminal sight.
I remember when you left me,
there in the cottage on Tybee
Island.
The moon was full,
the scent of saline
air filled the room
and pooled about
my eyes.
It’s always seven minutes past,
When I take your lifeless hand
and put it on my head.
Your rattling death call
fading out,
leaving me behind,
holding the memories of your life.
And mine.
All pieces are newly crafted and posted shortly after in adherence to the rules of the challenge. All the photos are mine unless otherwise stated.
Entry for Day 30 of 100 Days of Poetry Challenge by @d-pend.
Join the Steemit School here: https://discord.gg/yZvYjfM organized by @dobartim on Discord.
So many ways to convey tears. Even in poetry, we seem to shy away from flat-out saying so.
And this piece is so fitting your your mother, who is always there. An undead vampire, someone who is invited in, greater than life as a phantom in an empty opera house.
Someone who is always there, haunting your life, not necessarily in a bad way, but always there, just out of the corner of your eye.
She rattles about your life, as she rattled about in hers. Worrying things, making noise, leaving markings.
And the clinging to the past that she symbolizes. To her days of living, and to her disappearing, in your life. And to her own childhood in hers.
She is the symbol of looking backwards, in this poem. In her life. In your life. Past her death.
And always there, whether quiet, or loud. She sneaks up on you, as a memory, as a presence left behind. And then she comes crashing down, loud and unable to be ignored.
Before departing again.
A poem of contradictions. Of the young becoming old, of the powerful becoming frail.
A poem about growing up, and the ways memories are immutable, yet change as you do.
This is really heartbreaking... I have a similar time etched into my mind...
The quiet moments always seem to me to be the ones we attach the most meaning to. The ones the best poetry is made from at any rate. Thanks for sharing this one.
I agree, the quiet times seem to be a portal of sorts. ;)
Thank you kindly for dropping by.
A very compelling write, mamadini. I was with you every second:)
Very nice black&white clock beautifull
The last lines....
So much yes
Xo
<3 U.
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