Last Saturday my Aunt Diane stopped by to bring me something I had left at our family get-together on Labor Day.
We sat on my back porch, a light cool breeze keeping us company. We talked about playing cards on our fall break, picking back up from our weekly summer card nights.
That night I sent a group text with a countdown of the days - 25 to be exact.
That was the last time I talked to her. She had a heart attack the next afternoon and passed away Wednesday morning, the same day I found this poem. It speaks to my heart and is a gentle reminder of how easy it is to lose those we love. I don't write this post for sympathy. I write this to remind you how each day is a gift.
Days
Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.
Today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.
Through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow
on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to build on stage.
No wonder you find yourself
perched on the top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.
Just another Wednesday
you whisper,
then holding your breath,
place this cup on yesterday’s saucer
without the slightest clink.
I’m joining an open community of writers over at Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog. If you write (or want to write) just for the magic of it, consider this your invitation to join us. #sosmagic
