A reminder that we're not alone.

 

The world that we know,

imperfect and flawed,

is not a place for the weak.

With each gust of wind,

with each bomb that's dropped,

with each hungry child who cries out for food,

its churned,

and enraged,

immersed in despair.

Yet in spite of clichés,

dry repartee,

a heightened conviction

of a planet gone mad,

Comes the sunrise,

the sunset,

a rainbow's bright hues,

woven through mist

by a Heavenly Hand.

An assurance, a promise 

not all will be angst,

not all will fall short,

not all will end in heartache, regret.

That the world we know

imperfect, and flawed

still belongs

to the Master of Love.

Struggling with grief after the loss of my Dad.

 

I'm fearful of

what's in the void

in my heart.

the one that formed,

when you left.

It's a chasm of tears

boiling,

churning,

teeming with ache.

I've buried the pain

where no one can look.

under heavy, dense layers

of work and of sleep,

more work and more sleep.

I grip hard and hold fast

to the layers

that swathe

sorrow,

the heartache,

unbearable loss.

But the layers are slipping,

disrobing the void,

flinging one, then two,

then another one yet.

like Salome's veils.

soon all will be bared,

like the nerve of a tooth,

pulsing,

straining

a crumbling dam.

Then bittersweet tears

released from their lair,

will pour out, gush out

like Niagara,

Iguazu,

Tahquamenon Falls.

until all that remains

is that void in my heart.

and I finally

admit that

you're gone.

Memories of my grandmother's home.a very special place.


I stood outside in the sleet,

gazing at your house,

our house,

once my safe haven.

A place of oatmeal cookies,

a creaking porch swing,

an ancient bonging clock,

organ music,

melodious humming,

and stories of how it used to be.

They left when you left.

Now all that remains

are the memories of

a grandmother's love,

that flows from my heart

to my pen.

yellowing photographs,

keepsakes,

porcelain dolls,

And your house...

now their house...

no longer ours.

Yet you would be proud

of how strangers have cared for

your place,

our place,

once my safe haven.

Does anyone ever really own a house?

Perhaps not.

At best it is a fleeting possession

on the journey of life.

The house remains.

We don't.

But you have left your mark,

on your house,

on us,

on me.

As I stood outside in the sleet,

gazing at your house,

I knew you were there.

Michelle Close Mills' work has appeared in "Skyline", "Spinnings", "Fate", "GreenPrints, the Weeder's Digest", "Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul- Daily Inspirations", "Pocket Prayers", "The Rocking Chair Reader - Family Gatherings", and "To Have and To Hold: Prayers, Poems, and Blessings for Newlyweds" by Time Warner's Center Street Books.  Michelle resides in Seminole, Florida.