Maybe this time I’ll rescue my Mother.
Pearl Harbor will just be a sleepy port of call.
Nobody came & nobody went away from home.
Nothing lost. No wedding bells.
We’ll gaze at the mist of plum blossoms
on the wide valley floor. Feed my lambs, someone
said. Someone loves like wind. No shunted hopes,
no brown uniform thrown on the bed.
His face won’t be in that photograph.
His face won’t look like mine. Nothing
gambled, lost in the high desert dust.
No frozen clothes on a winter line.
Brothers will just be brothers, won’t
go speechless in the silent light of home.
Although that one of them, he’ll still
go to Alaska on a tall sail ship.
He’ll still die, an artful youth of a man.
Some things just gotta be. Else no
wonder of clay, no sister on my desk.
Maybe Grandfather & Grandmother
will harvest ample roots on the rock-strewn
sides of farmers hills. No drought.
Maybe Mother will land covered in Spring rain.
Maybe she’ll smile, never knowing
I changed everything, including me.
Not so much revised as reposted now. Life being what it is, here is some wandering back to mother, what wants saying now and here. A life in parallel, no matter how straight or bent the lines. Allowing intention some wandering as well. What in life did or didn’t work out so much as first imagined. Spare some thought for making another possibility, what lays tucked beneath the sheets.
This being a briefer than brief history and not-history of mother and family. Microscopic thumbnails. A war that made soldiers and sailors and secretaries and post-celebratory-marriages that maybe shouldn’t have been nor parents who wanted more than received. Divorce was the word used with shame. Could have been more blessed, more easy at least.