I dreamed of a boy
in a fireplace.
Curled inside
its cold recess,
he slept the sleep
of the innocent
while I stood outside,
powerless.
But the flames
wouldn't spark
and the boy slept on,
fetus-like.
Perhaps he dreamed
of a birthday cake
or of a woman watching
the darkness at play.
Perhaps he was the smoke
poured from my addled brain.
For there are times it
seems too sick a fate
to be a parent on
this cold, dark stage.
Where every lick
of what if
dances nearer upon
this matchstick life.
6 comments:
I was just thinking this morning how hard a job it is to be a parent. Not so much the small, ordinary things, but the big things. You know, like really messing it up. And those "what ifs," too.
That first line is so wonderful and evocative. It begs one to run with it, to see where it goes.
Not even when they were small could i cling to my children (kind of hard to do anyway when they are 125 miles away) but I also never went through the what if stuff, i knew my life and strength was big enough to shield them. and the couple of times I was needed to do it, the resources were there.
Truth be told kiddo, my youngest is 31, and even though I was a "matchstick man" they made it to adulthood and careers. Now if they all would just spend more time in the sack so i could have some more grand kids to get all sugar drunk and send home to their parents it's be cool.
This one's very personal, as our daughter is experiencing a prolonged bout of illness that has yet to be diagnosed.
I hope it passes. But the uncertainty's enough to upend everything for now.
Sarah if it not diagnosed by her regular practitioner then find one who has a clue.
Thanks, Mark. We're still waiting on some tests. One of them is inconclusive at this point. More to come.
Luckily, she's been doing better the last couple of days. We're just hoping it holds steady, since the exact thing's happened several times over the last few weeks.
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