Four years ago, early morning, I awoke, exhausted, in a small sparse room in a hospice center where I had stayed round the clock for several days, realizing this would be the last day I'd have with my beloved husband who was transitioning to a better place, leaving me to make it on my own. I remember sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch afterward waiting for others in my family to come and wrap me in their love, take me home with them, and let me sleep.
Four years and still this day brings back such sorrow and so many memories.
A BALMY DAY IN JANUARY
like none I've seen in years. In the park,
sunshine heals like days I waited urgently
to be free of walls, to tear across the pasture
on my mare, rushing toward fulfilling childhood dreams.
I stroll with Rocky this winter day, warm enough
to over-heat his black fur, his weakened bones.
His unconditional love fills a tiny part of that left empty now.
Women in tennis attire stride toward the courts,
new bags on their shoulders, swinging rackets,
tossing hair, wearing trendy shoes. Love – one.
Love-two, their happy voices sing on brisk air.
Tennis was once our game, long ago,
when a simple quarrel over a match seemed
the end of our world; a gentle world we did not
properly nurture, because we didn’t know
what we didn’t know.
--- Glenda C. Beall
Published by Wild Goose Poetry Review, Spring, 2013
like none I've seen in years. In the park,
sunshine heals like days I waited urgently
to be free of walls, to tear across the pasture
on my mare, rushing toward fulfilling childhood dreams.
I stroll with Rocky this winter day, warm enough
to over-heat his black fur, his weakened bones.
His unconditional love fills a tiny part of that left empty now.
Women in tennis attire stride toward the courts,
new bags on their shoulders, swinging rackets,
tossing hair, wearing trendy shoes. Love – one.
Love-two, their happy voices sing on brisk air.
Tennis was once our game, long ago,
when a simple quarrel over a match seemed
the end of our world; a gentle world we did not
properly nurture, because we didn’t know
what we didn’t know.
--- Glenda C. Beall
Published by Wild Goose Poetry Review, Spring, 2013
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| Glenda on family tennis court |
What can words say? Thinking of you.
ReplyDeleteMaren
Thank you, Maren.
ReplyDeleteThe poem brought a tear to my eye. My husband Bill never played tennis, but my parents did, and I remember often watching them play when I was a child. Congratulations on getting the poem published in Wild Goose Poetry Review.
ReplyDeleteI've always loved that poem, Glenda. Your post and poem brings it all back and I miss him, too. And once again, my heart hurts for your loss...and mine.
ReplyDelete