Mother and I sit in the car
She turns on the radio to cover up the fact that we are sitting in complete silence
Like a gun without a trigger
It was pointless.
As silence fills the car it spills out to the streets like a glass of wine on a white carpet
I gaze out the window to stare face to face with an empty oasis
Dry as a desert
Clam like the eye of a tornado
Weeds everywhere you stepped
No was there except an old woman sitting quietly in a rocking chair.
I guess this is supposed to represent my life in some sort of way
But that wouldn't explain why my mother; the woman who held me from birth shoved me out of the car to fend for my self in this dark oasis
I stare into this blank desert of weeds and decide to conquer it.
As I move further and further into the oasis weeds cover my ankles
I keep going trying not to mind it
The weeds travel from my ankles to my knees pulling me closer and closer to the ground like gravity did to Friendship 7
But my desire to get through this oasis without letting these weeds get me down was strong.
Then anxiety hit me like the hot wind and sand to my face
I must get through this oasis
I must get to the other side
But why?
Why should I travel through this scorching hot oasis just to leave it in the end
An end is a hurtful place
a place where you don't know when you will be gone it could be soon, never, later, now
I could make it right now.
As the weeds journey to my neck, I fall face first into the burning sand
I give up.
I wait for the weeds to tighten around my neck
The oasis grows darker and darker
I look up to try and take one last look at the sun
Instead, I am greeted by an old woman in a rocking chair
With my last breath, I ask
Why did this have to happen to me?
She spoke soft and wise
Her voice reminded me of the creaking of close wooden tile
Because you gave up before the journey even started
And with that, I closed my eyes
...
My eyes reopen I look at my surroundings to see I am once again in the car with my mother
I sit and enjoy the silence.
YOU ARE READING
A Spark Of Hope
PoetryTHE GESTURE: By George Oppen The question is: how does one hold an apple Who likes apples And how does one handle Filth? The question is How does one hold something In the mind which he intends To grasp and how does the salesman Hold a bauble he int...
