It's Rolling On Midnight, But It's Not Twelve Yet . . .  [Just something I wrote for my ma . . . who found her own way out of life when I was just beginning mine]
Hey ma,
It’s the middle of the night, and I can feel you in my heart again. I have been travelling back down your street of tears, when I know I should be sleeping. I just needed to write to tell you that I've been thinking about you, that I remember your life more than I remember your death, even though I’m not too sure which was which sometimes. I remember how you always walked alone, how you crumbled from the weight of life’s sorrow, and how no one heard you cry. Maybe if I had called to you, spoke with you, lent you the whisper of my voice, maybe if I had offered you my hand, my arm, my shoulder to lean on, things would have been different. I couldn’t or didn’t, the distinction blurs in any dark room. And yes, I guess I was wrong not to step from the shadows, not to show up for you, reach for you, and help you back to your feet again. Just know that I wanted to, and maybe that’s enough.
Yeah, I thought of you this evening. I miss everything about you. I wish we’d had more time. You see, I’m running low under this crooked moon, and the journey has been savage. The years have stripped away most of what I thought was true. Well, living on the road is never easy, but so much harder when someone forgets to give you a map, forgets even to say where you’re supposed to be headed. And I think, sometimes, I’ve been travelling too long. Sometimes, I wonder if this highway won’t end soon, and if the white lines painted over the ragged asphalt won't stop flicking by in an endless parody of progress. I’m getting nowhere closer, and, yes, what you’ve guessed is true. I’ve given up hoping. I know now what I may have known all along. I will never find my way home to you.
Every turn along the way, every dark night, has peeled off the layers of my energy, and sometimes I’m so cold, so helpless, so alone. I have lived in every station of the cross, every fallout shelter, slept in the arms of danger, and for whatever reason, ma, I'm still here. I have saddled up, like you said I should, put on my brave coat, and ridden into battle. I never knew you weren’t coming with me. I never knew I would have to fight or fall on the strength of my own convictions. I guess you thought I understood. I guess you hoped I was older than my years. Or maybe you didn’t care. It doesn’t matter now. I have looked into every night sky crowded with stars. You’re nowhere to be found.
Sometimes I think I hear your voice, but you’re speaking kind of low. I guess I can imagine what you would say, but I’m too tired, and maybe I don’t really know. I’ll just keep going because I think that is what you’d want. I just needed to write to let you know that I’m still all right. I just do what I have to do to get by.
So I guess I’ll go to bed soon, it’ll be morning before too long. I know what you’re thinking, I know I need my sleep. And yes, I know, I understand, that I haven’t finished yet. I can still find the road, ma, I can still find the drive. But if you get a moment, if you find the chance, let me know how you’re doing. You see I’d like to write the rest of your story, maybe tell you that I’m sorry, even though I realise that it must be hard to send me postcards from purgatory.
All my love,
Kennedy |
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