Posted Nov 2, 2019
A woman I have known for some time confided in me recently. She was burdened by a lot of things. She is about my age which means that she has aging parents, at least one child with issues, and is dealing with the aging process herself and her husbands aging as well.
She is not really a person who gets down much but over time that’s not as true a statement as it once was. She was pretty down when we chatted. I hope our conversation helped. I think she really just needed to dump it all out.
This website I do is, for the most part, a pretty upbeat thing I think and while we all have reason to get down at times I try not to go there much. But my friend reads what I post here and I just wanted to share how deep she was down that day to say that some days it logical to feel down. She was, and remains, carrying a pretty heavy stress load and some of her friends and family need to understand that.
Anyway, here is the poem I wrote after chatting with her that day. Its not a happy poem and if your having a bad day, well, perhaps you should wait for my next post, but if your just cruising along perhaps reading it will bring into clear focus that the scratch on you new BMW really isn’t that big a deal, or not getting that promotion is not as important as the real issues in life.
PHONES RING
Phones ring.
They ring all the time.
At home, at work, in the car.
Sometimes I answer, most often I don’t.
News of my fathers death,
A confirmation after decades
Of estrangement.
Phones ring.
They ring all the time.
At home, at work, in the car.
Sometimes I answer, most often I don’t.
My son has died.
Finally succumbed to his demons.
My failure, but not mine alone.
Phones ring.
They ring all the time.
At home, at work, in the car.
Sometimes I answer, most often I don’t.
It will be a big stroke one day,
My husband of forty years.
He carries instructions for passersby.
I carry the weight of waiting.
Phones ring.
They ring all the time.
At home, at work, in the car.
Sometimes I answer, most often I don’t.
More tests, more results.
My doctor is inconclusive.
I don’t think it’s the cancer that kills you,
But fearing it’s return.
Phones ring.
They ring all the time.
At home, at work, in the car.
Sometimes I answer, most often I don’t.
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A couple of final thoughts from Django:
I know that was not a fun poem to read. My goal was to capture how far down she was that day.
But after sharing how she felt that day and me sharing the poem with her she seems to be feeling a bit better able to cope. If you see her, give her a hug.
