So many years and tears.
So many ways to fool ourselves that
somehow there will be a miracle;
we'll wake one morning and things will change.
We gaze at grey and tell ourselves
that we see pink.
Convince ourselves that today
a sign of improvement exists.
Shoring up against despair;
salt water seeping between cracks.
Hope and sand eroding
until there is nowhere left to stand.
No more shore - just a line
and lets the saline drip
into the wounds
as our world ends.
I read Jodi Picoult's weepy "my sister's keeper" today then while I was still reeling from the emotional shock of it I read the true story of baby RB who suffered a tortured existence having been born with a condition which reduced his quality of life terribly. Then I read the prompt for today's November Poem a day challenge at Writer's Digest which was to write about poem about lines or a line.
I thought about the emotional journey that leads to that edge, line where realisation crashes in for people who have terminally ill loved ones. I have experienced that moment - as a relative - long ago enough now for me to be able to include that memory inside this poem which felt as though it was waiting for me to write it down.