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sweetbriarpoet
Flower Fortune- Sweetbriar: Poetry and fragrance.
Thirty-Second Entry
Dead inside, waiting for spring. A rose bud sits
behind me like a mirrored image, as I stare out the foggy window
and wish for that summer when our mouths burned with ocean salt.
I'm only back briefly. I've been swamped with schoolwork, hit by a load of family issues, and continually reminded by Rev that I need to keep a strong presence. Yesterday, I had one of the worst shocks ever, one that still makes my insides murmur with discontent. Although not seemingly threatening on the outside, a phone call from my mother can ruin not only a day's worth of productivity, but at least a month's. A picked up the cell, hoping to all spiritual beings that it was Harry calling from the hospital. In two days, I haven't heard so much from him, and it seems that he gets further away, the less he communicates with me. I answered with an expectant, hello, just thinking about his deep, rough voice. Paige? Is't you? I almost hung up the phone in disgust and wonder. My mother calling me now? Why? For money, perhaps, though she knew I had none to give her. Besides, why would something so horrible happen at a time when I didn't have Harry for support and six children relying on my for lunch?
I can't talk, I said into the phone. I'm too busy being a good mother to my children. She was quiet for awhlie, though I could hear her raspy breathing against the receiver. I got that hint, she finally wheezed. And I don't like it. It'd do for you ta be nice ta yer ol' mum. But I wasn't sympathetic. Get to the point, please, I tried again. I wanta see 'em, she said after awhile. I thought ye'd let the tots see me? I laughed. Great idea, I answered. I swear if you come to this door, the police will be escorting you home. I hung up the phone. Rev was beside me. He had realized right away who I had been talking to. Trinity was pulling on his shirt. He picked her up and kissed my hair. She doesn't have enough money to get here, Pidge. Don't you worry. I grabbed his arm in a thank you. Trinity said, Do you love me Auntie? And I answered of course, more than life itself.
It's now almost 1 o'clock in the morning, and I'm trying to do a bit of homework before the sun rises. I certainly won't get it all done, but as long as I can stand it, I have to try and finish. If I don't get good marks, perhaps I won't get the job I so desire. It's a miracle that any person could be a single parent. How do they make it through the day? To all of you, I respect you more than anyone I know. I'm hoping that Harry will call me in a couple of hours. I just want to pretend he's beside me. The twins' birthday is slowly creeping up, and I still don't know where Louise and Reggie will stay. I'm plagued with too many emotions--I must go to writing papers. Cheers, all.
A poem should be political, so that it affects
all who read it. All who live in the world of war and
injustice. A poem should be hopeful, so that politics does not
seem so harsh and dark. A poem should be beautiful, so that
politics and hope are not confused as intention.
15 Fates
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Get Fortune Told
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