One of the perks of preparing for a cross-country move is forgetting to do things!
I also think my perception of what day is which is WAY off, so y’know what, whatever. Three poems anyway. A triptych. One poem, three parts, over “three days” (okay, yeah, sure, cheating, WHATEVER, AT LEAST I’M WRITING, AND THAT’S WHAT MATTERS)
“My hope is that
I can get to the point
Where it doesn’t take losing everything
To appreciate what it’s front of me,”
I say to the woman in the unfinished canvas that’s in front of me.
She looks at me,
then goes back to staring at nothing.
They say you can’t run from yourself,
but they’ve never seen me sprint.
“My hope is that someday,
you will see
that we did the best we could with what we had,”
my mother says,
quietly, with her eyes closed,
from a hospital bed.
My hope is that someday,
I will learn how to sleep,
and that one day,
I will take your advice
and slow down.
It would give me so much pleasure to remember
that my heart deserves to beat at a normal rate
and my breaths deserve to come deeply to my strong lungs
and that sometimes when I look up at the Chicago skyline when I’m driving at night
I can see the world I grew up in through a stranger’s eyes,
discovering the lights anew.