Ordinariness

Ordinariness

Pots and pans, only pots and pans.
These homey items contain the power
To rend my heart and start the tears.
Only personal items should hold this power.
Don’t you agree?
Your clothes, your cosmetics, your papers,
Not something mundane,
Not something ordinary,
No defense against the ordinary.

The little things—
It seems the mundane has power,
Takes me unawares because of its
Ordinariness.
I’m on guard against the personal.
Protective of myself knowing
I will feel pain.
There is no guard, no watchdog, no keeper
To set over the mundane.

The boxes sit in the garage,
Mocking me,
Containing what is left of your life.
I dare not touch them, open them,
Sort the items—for doing so causes
A mountain to fall on me,
A black mountain of grief
Which looms ever ready to
Overshadow and crush.

Someday.  Someday I hope to have
The strength to go through the boxes.
To sort your life, dividing it,
Incorporating it into my own and theirs.
For now the boxes sit as a
Silent reminder of the loss
Of a precious daughter
Who can never, ever
Hug her children again.

I love you, baby.
Mom

Anjaleck
Terrell
July 1, 2007