When I was a child, perhaps sick or just a rainy day, my mother would give me books for coloring, stickers, puzzles, no doubt to keep me quiet for hours.

I’d happily choose my crayons and color within the lines, lick and place the stickers where they belonged, bringing life to a page filled with only dashed lines. Methodically, I’d connect the numbered dots with my fine-tipped pencil, sometimes guessing what would appear, sometimes surprised–a giraffe! a birthday cake! a clown!

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But I’m old now. Having followed the rules I learned so well, I know little reward. Connecting the 55 dots has revealed no picture, invisible meaning, mystery buried in temporal living. Meaningless points in space. No point, really. Random dots breaking the promise.

What if “the facts” we were taught as children aren’t facts at all, aren’t true?
What if the children’s world we inhabited was the “real” world, and the scoldings and moldings were to keep us inside a small black-and-white box that adults could comfortably occupy without questioning their existence?

What if black-and-white is the lie, and the truth is always gray?
What if the solid world we live in is the illusion, and we’re simply players in our own created dramas?
What if we’ve been taught to shut our eyes and close our ears to the real world, the parallel dimension that we all inhabit, in which time doesn’t exist but all souls dwell?

What if we could silence and center ourselves so we could see and hear what’s all around us?
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What if a mother’s heart never accepts finality or separation, always knowing these are the true deceptions and choosing instead to experience what others deny?
What if choosing the “improvable” brings solace, grace, and continued connectedness? What if she’s here by my side?

Who cares what skeptics say? Pain, separation, despair are the ultimate rewards for denying the possibility of all things. Even if the naysayers are ultimately right, they suffer where I rejoice.

I wear your shoes, your scarf, your jacket, your ring.
I take sips from the bottle of water you left behind.
I listen over and over to your last phone message and watch videos of you so vibrant and full of life.

Always hoping I will feel your nearness, your continued presence, your permanence, oh, child of mine.

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When you died, I died, my life died. Nothing left but a tin woman remaining for those left behind, those too, whom I have loved with all my heart.
Will we ever be reborn?
Sept. 25, 2014

You’d think you’d get some sort of warning
like when a train is coming and you’re miles down the road
you hear the rumbling, the whistle, feel the vibration on the tracks if you kneel and place your cheek to the metal…

that would be fair, kind, thoughtful
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not sneaking up on you, some thief, rapist, murderer, ghoul thrusting bony fingers through your back deep into your chest and tearing – no, ripping – your heart in half leaving only jagged, bleeding flesh, no longer beating, just carrion feed

while you sit on the tracks in your easy chair watching the sun sink silently into the earth
You’d think you’d sense when your world is about to end so you could savor one last deep easy breath before dying.