Breaking Through The Veil
Once more waiting for sleep, lying on my back in my bed
with casket hands, palms down, crossed upon my chest
speaking quietly to my dead mother.
Mother, I had another one of those wicked migraines this morning.
You know the ones like we shared.
When I was young, you used to have me lie on the couch,
with my head in your lap,
the room darkened and in total silence,
and you would put a cold, wet washcloth on my head
and you would rub my temples until I stopped crying.
I would sometimes fall asleep like that.
It was a short-lived moment of peace.
Now, I can’t stop. I don’t have time.
I need to push through the pain until I reach the other side.
Mother, our lives are so hard.
Work has been especially frustrating lately.
No one listens to me. No one hears me.
As I get older, I feel more and more
like a thin piece of cellophane,
translucent and unrecognizable, imperceptible, unnoticed.
And my children are my worst critics;
they laugh at my fears and faults and make fun of my age.
Did you feel that way before the end?
Were you someone?
Mother, I saw you in my dreams last night.
You were just a girl, with your auburn red tresses long and curled.
You smiled up at me,
sitting on your knees on the patterned picnic blanket,
the warm sun brightening your face, your eyes aglow.
And you spoke in your young voice,
“It’s lovely here.”
And the wind grew louder, and you spoke again,
but I couldn’t hear you, your words were ghostly and indistinct.
Try harder, mother, speak louder.
And at that moment, I felt unbridled grief.
Were the words I missed important or prophetic or nothing at all?
Were they a reflection on the beauty of life or a list of sad regrets?
Mother, I miss you so much.
Please answer. Tell me what’s waiting there for me.
Mark James Trisko has been writing poetry for his entire life, but after retiring recently, he heard his muses yelling loudly in the night begging him to let their voices be heard. His work is scheduled to appear in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal. He currently lives in Minnesota, with his beautiful spouse of 47 years, four wonderful children and eight above-normal grandchildren.
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