Unfortunately,
You will wheel yourself up to an antique table
To eat your frozen TV-tray dinners of
Salisbury steak and creamed carrots.
Gretchen chews with her mouth wide,
And you greet her in hopes of triggering
One of her fantastic, philosophical tangents.
You will sit in your favourite rocking chair
The one in the corner with an empty soul.
The crochet hook in your hand will weave strands of violet,
Forming the sleeve of a sweater for your son.
You stare out at the trees that look so alike.
"Jasmine," you will say, "don't you see any birds out there?"
She will say nothing.
You can almost make out her blemishes
And the mole on her nose.
And every day you spend awake,
It is coming, and It will not wait.
In a sheetless bed, you will
search for the only channel that does not play poorly.
You don't understand why the youth today have no self-respect
Or why they are obsessed with material wealth
And you wonder why your son never calls you, nor visits;
He will never get his sweater if he doesn't come to see you.
Maybe he is too busy being great
To drive into a parking lot that always remains vacant.
The soap opera on the screen is tragic
You try to remember when you were an actress's age,
But your brain only knows static.
And every day you spend awake,
It is coming, and It will not wait.
Time will ebb and flow
Buoyant, you will float
And watch the ambulances pull out of the driveway,
Carrying the remains of Gretchen.
Though you dislike ash, you hope she will be cremated;
Gretchen always said she wished to be sprinkled on a shoreline abroad.
Your hands can't hold your crochet hook very well now
It slips.
A nurse walks over to hand it back to you
You could only dream of grabbing it yourself.
And every day you spend awake,
It is coming, and It will not wait.
Someone will tell you your daughter has come to visit
But you and Jasmine never raised a girl.
A woman in purple pants kisses your forehead, saying
"Mom? Did you miss me?"
You feel sorry that she is a stranger to you,
For she would have been nice to nurture.
You turn, and utter, "Jasmine..? Where is our son?"
"Mother, I'm not your son anymore," the woman says slowly. "I am a woman now. I transitioned.
I have told you this over and over, Mom."
You shake your head, confused,
And watch as the flashes of purple stride away.
And every day you spend awake,
It is coming, and It will not wait.
Your IV tangles with your misery
Slow breezes of musky air exhale through your nose
You peer above, and the tower holding your saline bag
Turns into Its arm;
The IV itself
Contorts into Its fingers.
You have known It would arrive as It pleased
Now felt just as ordinary a time as any other afternoon
Perfect enough for It.
Debating pressing the 'CALL' button on the remote,
A nurse walks by with a cup of lemonade.
Your eyes meet;
She knows you are looking right at It
As she checks your vitals on a machine to your left,
You are hoping she will spare you a revival.
And every day you spend awake,
It is coming, and It will not wait.
It holds you in your arms for days to come
Rocking you paternally.
You can just make out the cadence of Jasmine's lullaby
And you hum it with what strength you still have.
However,
Its tone changes, you feel It becoming impatient
So you call out for Jasmine to join you.
It is a man who enters to tell you softly
That Jasmine is not here, that she died six summers ago.
You know it's not true
You don't get a chance to object before It steals your breath.
YOU ARE READING
An Enigma Is Too Much For A Cat To Eat
Poetrypoetry from the raw heart of a teenage girl. I wrote this poetry collection throughout my junior year of high school, when so much change was underneath the sun's aura. In and out of depression, in and out of the psych ward, I survived the first ha...
