i wonder
if the way was opened
for you to go back
to when you were a young girl,
with all that lay ahead,
would you take the offer with
both hands open
or simply, politely,
refuse?
for now you lie on
the edge of no return, without
a way back, life closed and
ending. somehow
i don't think you'd
choose to
return to those days, to
live through it all again;
you're just too tired, too
weary, too sad, too
finished with life.
And yet
the grasp has been so strong,
even on these remnants you've
had, the minimalistic
take on a plenary
reality; but no longer.
The grip is looser,
waxy, while life
wanes.
The offer of return
was never made
but a greater one remains;
your hand seems too weak to hold anything
now, but grace imposes
no weight you cannot
hold.
(for Mam)
