Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Day 2

Gathering Eggs

The day she removed her apron
and draped it over the egg basket
I knew life was about to change

These chickens, as dear to her as children,
still clucked, still pecked,
still layed.
But she
abandoned them.
They still needed her when she purposefully
removed from her midsection the square of linen
that daily held her collection—
the proof that her chickens existed at all—
and forever laid it aside.
As if to remove the reminder of her obligations to
and the dependence of those
who continued to live.

As if that would erase the memory of the dead.

The day she removed her apron,
what little was left of life light faded from her eyes.
A dull soul remained,
the cut away pain tucked in a pocket of linen.
Hope also removed,

The day she removed her apron,
I wanted to scream
into her deafened ears:
What about me? I’m still alive!
But life had already lost its value.
And death had already extended an invitation.

The day I donned her apron
And took hold of the egg basket handle,
I knew life was about to change
And I would never give up, nor
Abandon them.

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