The trouble with souvenirs brought back to us by our loved ones is that they sometimes remind us of what we’ve missed out on.
The lives they lived apart from the life they promised to live with us.
They fill us with the fear that the time we spend with them isn’t as good as the time apart.
I am angry at his books.
At the mementoes from other countries
He has been to
But we haven’t.
The kitschy picture frame
Full of sand from
Dubai.
Makes me want to send it flying.
The mugs from Greece
Might shatter with a satisfying smash.
Rome, Spain, China, Australia, Turkey, Peru, Chile
Port visits that have held him when we could not.
And so, I want to pitch
These trinkets into the fire.
Ire.
More new lands will hold him
New seas will rock him to sleep
In his solitary berthing
While I lay cold
In our lonely, too-big bed.
I know this should not make me angry.
He would much prefer that we be with him,
In those places.
Or that he was home
Sitting with us by the warmth of the fire.
I should be happy that he is LIVING
While he is gone
And has brief moments of freedom
From the
Groundhog Days
Of work.
We are both making the most
Out of life
While apart
And that is as it should be.
But some raw part of me
Reacts with fury just the same.
Not at him….
Just at the feeling
And reminders of
ALONE
AGAIN.
He’ll bring home new trinkets
New books and photos
Of places I won’t want
To look at
Because they remind me that he lived and experienced
These New places,
new lands…
Without us again.
They held him
When we could not
And who held us?
The lives they lived apart from the life they promised to live with us.
They fill us with the fear that the time we spend with them isn’t as good as the time apart.
I am angry at his books.
At the mementoes from other countries
He has been to
But we haven’t.
The kitschy picture frame
Full of sand from
Dubai.
Makes me want to send it flying.
The mugs from Greece
Might shatter with a satisfying smash.
Rome, Spain, China, Australia, Turkey, Peru, Chile
Port visits that have held him when we could not.
And so, I want to pitch
These trinkets into the fire.
Ire.
More new lands will hold him
New seas will rock him to sleep
In his solitary berthing
While I lay cold
In our lonely, too-big bed.
I know this should not make me angry.
He would much prefer that we be with him,
In those places.
Or that he was home
Sitting with us by the warmth of the fire.
I should be happy that he is LIVING
While he is gone
And has brief moments of freedom
From the
Groundhog Days
Of work.
We are both making the most
Out of life
While apart
And that is as it should be.
But some raw part of me
Reacts with fury just the same.
Not at him….
Just at the feeling
And reminders of
ALONE
AGAIN.
He’ll bring home new trinkets
New books and photos
Of places I won’t want
To look at
Because they remind me that he lived and experienced
These New places,
new lands…
Without us again.
They held him
When we could not
And who held us?
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