Self-Made Prison

a memory 1990

Her chair sits in the corner
of that lonely sterile room,
no longer collecting dust,
for now she sits all day long.

That sad forlorn wrinkled face,
fingers intertwined in lap,
darkness permeates her room,
curtains are closed in daylight.

To some they think it's her eyes,
but she is lost in mem'ries,
a slow quiet rock is heard
as she tries to calm regrets.

No visitors seek her out,
care-providers pass on by,
avoiding her lashing out
for the surface they just see,

not the person in the shell,
whose life once held great purpose
as wife, mother, and best friend,
now losses out of control.

I asked to sit for awhile,
on that low stool at her feet.
Questioning why I'd want to
because “others pass me by.”

My inner voice poking me
to sit humbly before her,
to use my patience as 'ear'
and shoulders to 'weight her words'.

In this well stamped memory,
I recall her word's wisdom
as she released life's regrets,
while I became the student.

The following day . . . sunshine!
That rocking chair now empty
as she stood at open door,
and watched passerby's looks
.

Tivonna