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Daughter in Mourning

With confusion of thought I sit by her side
and mourn the inevitable. I am incapable of words. No preparations to make, no suitcase to pack, just mirrored expressions between us
exposing truths of a knowledge shared.

Death has filled this small room with his presence yet, unseen, he waits patiently for his traveling companion. Destination
known only to the one they will make this journey together as though old friends.

The clock by her bedside, like a metronome,
ticks out every measure of laboured breath.
Rhythms of life struggle for survival
knowing only too well the fruitlessness of the effort.

I feel anger and pain, hope yet despair,
as each emotion races to dominate the moment.
Nothing has prepared me for this.
I can but sit and watch over the now frail
form that brought me into this world.

My Mother's hands, that now grip mine,
had once been delicate when they held my Father's hands. Gentle when she cradled babies. Soft hands that daubed chalk pink Calomine on Chickenpox or turned up the lamp
to dispel childhood terrors from my room.

The smell of Lavender polish permeated the house when those same hands scrubbed and waxed the faded pattern of worn linoleum
in order to transfer worry to some repetitious task.

The day has gone when callused fingers
dug in blackened soil to coax a rose to life
as lately I recall her twisted fingers, like Winter branches on a tree, struggling to turn each page of some romantic novel.

My Mother gazed for hours at blank white squares of daily crosswords. 
Pencil poised in readiness for solutions never revealed.

I wish I could turn up the lamp as she once did for me. Dissolve all her shadows and fears. But no matter how brightly my light shines the shadows will not let me pass.
I am reluctant and afraid to accept her departure from my life.

I know the words she needs to hear me say.
I am economical with the truth in saying 
I'll be fine without her. Conflicting thoughts torment my mind as I wish for death to take her quickly without pain.
Yet my heart is selfish wanting her most precious possession, her time.

Death waits no longer. She has reached for his hand and let go of mine. Quietly slipped past me, somehow, and left with him.
The world continues on outside her room.
Falling Autumn leaves, from Linden trees,
propel towards their fate on gusts of wind.
How aptly they reflect my helplessness and sorrow. A part of me just left, with her, forever yet she remains behind for always with me.

Night Terrors

Within the eyes of one small child
the world could change inside a darkened room
Imagined terrors manifest,
where coiled and slithering Vipers lurk,
in the serpentine stems
of Jacobean patterned wallpaper.

Keepers of Gothic parapets by day
winged Griffins crouch.
Sentinels of grey stone ledges,
guardians of the village church.

Motionless they perch 'til dark
then, silent as a feather falls,
spread their wings return to roost
in their cavernous lair beneath the bed.

Sharp talloned, eyes coal black,
dragons of menace silently wait 
only for opportunity.
Penalty for coverlets pulled too high
a child's socked foot exposed,
sure to tempt the pounce of demons,
is hastily retrieved under the sanctuary
of pink counterpanes.

Nine O' clock horses, nightmares of children,
bearing with them all conceivable fears.
"And if I die before I wake", a child's prayer of whispered words begs protection from the harm at hand. 

In exhaustion, from the dread contrived, mercifully comes the unconscious haven of sleep.
Reprieved at last when tear wet lashes fall on rosened cheeks.
Night time terrors of childhood banished in the shadowed presence of the sandman.

© All Copyright, 2000, Anne Elizabeth Conners.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.