Whispered Love


Rising to caress my fingertips,
her last breaths evoke memories so warm
yet strangely, so icy in their message.

Dampness invades graying hair
and the hand held tenderly in my right hand,
hoping the touch of my left moving down to her face
might vanquish the invading cold,
release my still clinging question.

Patience moves my palm upon her forehead,
awaiting conveyance as to who am I?

From where?

Why a life lived so many years without answers.

Eyes close on this once young mother
delivering death at birth's first born,
suffering loss of voice,
loss of sound,
shock pleading to heal,
months of remorse,
until…

Healing rose from an infant’s abandonment,
adoption of a week old child
embraced by a suffering
but tender surrogate by year's end
a motherless child…

Her's to raise.

Her's to love.

“Guilt takes no prisoners,”
she exclaimed so many years later.

It is not enough to do the right thing.
Giving merely suspends reality,
all the way to one's last breath.

Now…

Gazing at a still body,
I imagine that first day,
when her caring eyes
may have delved beyond my vision,
conveying kaleidoscopic blur,
memories without form,
delayed transcendence
for this moment.

How precious
this wilted body before me,
this woman who became
my light in the dark,
whose clothes I will now fold,
arrange,
and...

Bedside light dims.

Two mothers.

One son.

Spirits together again in darkness.

Identities at peace.

Unseen smiles shared.

Side by side hearts
moving together
in whispered love.