The Curtain

by Nanette Kouts Waters '79

 

Your azure eyes are staring,

Looking in or out?

Talk to me

Of barefoot Depression summers,

Of  picking cotton to put food on your table,

Of hot, southern summer nights spent in the embrace of your lover,

Of watching your man board the train to kill or be killed on some exotic Pacific island, while you held the tiny little hands of his gifts to the world,

Of welcoming him home, alive and well,

Of the young boy and girl you prayerfully watched grow to manhood and womanhood,

Of the joy of holding your grand-gifts, while you tickle their tiny toes,

Of feeling life do its best to slow you down, yet fighting back with prescribed exercises and          pharmaceuticals.

Of feeling a darkness slowly encroaching upon your sensing and knowing like Spanish moss on    a coastal live oak tree.

 

You do not respond to my gently cruel requests

To talk sense to me,

To eat your dinner,

To sit still

             so that I can get food in your mouth.

 

Please, tell me where you are; I miss you.