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I might have called — for Mother’s Day (had she not changed the phone). I might have writ (had I not blocked all pens). Not much mother there in any case. And may I claim to miss what never was?
Aye. But missing sires blessing: my greater joy, cross-gendering self to mother, healing orphans passing through.
Last fall the gods condemned the orphanage. The Vets scarfed up the furniture remains. Kids stopped to help me clean (or pick through some inheritable crumbs). Then lighter I retreated to my Greensboro efficiency.
But with the war that nest has emptied, too. A couple kids stop by for prayers. Mostly all is still. Peaceful... or eery... depending on my mood. When peace I thought this now “acceptance.” Till Mother’s Day.
I miss the kids! Not too much, understand. 'Cause it's okay. But I wish I hadn't let that upstart wren bury her nest within our pot of mums. The egglets three were merely cute, but once a downy, peeping trio they did sucker me to re-admit my mother. With threatening hail, usurping I brought them and mums and all inside. They survived.
My heart... less well. By Mother’s Day dad and mom instructed maiden flights. I soared with their success, and braced to sink with their impending wings. But I was spared such bittersweet.
To flash a mirror and unstoic me, the heavens crept in on little cat feet. And greeted every fledgling wren with Cheshire smile. And made a meal of airiness. And of my heart a bloody mess.
I metaphored this fowl show of joys and pains of empty
nests. Had I consented all my children go? Or should but couldn't quite?
That wasn’t ink coagulated in the rusty pen. I’d made myself a
pelican who lived to offer life from out her quill, if not her bill. I still
was sucker, offering succor — when it was my need. Fledglings soaring
independently in stormy skys? At last this instant karma after thirty years:
nor I nor any hatchling shall return to nest.
© Richard Pinneau, 2003 Feedback appreciated: rp@richardpinneau.com |
www.RichardPinneau.com See more at:
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