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10/10/11 - (2)
Shroud
Strange, how, at the height of my deepest night's sleep, After my third evening vigil at my mother's bedside, I awaken, as if from a demon-riven dream, Completely relieved, liberated, disburdened, absolved of anxieties, Purged of my residual anger toward my father, Deceased, these past eight and half years, And my resentment of his attempts to dominate my life.
Now, I sense my generous, compassionate mother, In her constant role of tenacious mediator, Intervening between me, the poet, and him, the businessman, Neutralizing his conditional-love control over me, Gathering, into her quiet sovereignty, all my animus, Freeing me to appreciate his assets, forgive his liabilities, Respect him, again, as the father who just wanted the best for me.
I feel my mother, in the motionless throes of her going, Lifting my burdensome shroud of disaffection, So that, for the rest of this restless night and beyond, forever, I can love him unconditionally, As I haven't since those innocent seasons of childhood . . . Sense her preparing to bury that shroud, between her last breaths And the moment she reunites with her beloved Saul.
10/10/11 - (2)
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