Correspondence
A poem.
Our son is turning ten tomorrow, Eve
He's growing up like you would scarce believe
I show him all my videos of you
They seemed so many; now they seem so few
He says it's cool to see his mom with him
The words seem empty, uttered on a whim
Of course, he doesn't know you anymore
He doesn't have the memories I store
Ten years for him means nine with you away
Do our six together nine outweigh?
The doctor says my health is going great
That I've got fifty years ahead that wait
When I reach ninety, six will seem so small
But still it doesn't feel like six at all
When you start a life together, then
Every moment comes to seem like ten
And so I write these words you'll never see
My mother says you're waiting there for me
But I just feel I'm writing to myself
So I will lay my pen back on the shelf
I'll crumple up and toss this exercise
And when my grandson opens up his eyes
In ten or twenty, maybe thirty years
Amid the jubilation and the cheers
If all I see are yours, I'll have to go
And write to tell you how I miss you so
A compelling portrait of a lonely grief. The initial difficultly readers like myself might have in following all of the speaker's calculations only increases the sense of disorientation.
Devastatingly beautiful ✨