You were more silent than a deep
leaden fog keeping still over Dublin Bay.
Across the Atlantic, I sensed the cheerful
lightness of your spirit sinking into gloom.
But your silence spoke on your behalf
even when you talked and said nothing.
When I called you that mist started
to lift and you took heart again.
Then word by slow word, you divulged
a litany of too many small labours.
Your mother-in-law down the street
needed a light bulb changed yet again.
The school bully attacked your son and
the teacher called you twice this week.
Your daughter threw a wobbly over algebra
when an imaginary quadratic proved too dramatic.
Your wife, panicked for the eggs were
too small, rushed you to the shop.
Then she said the butter was the
wrong brand, so out you rushed again.
I wondered if you were a saint
doing so much for so little return.
For some, their work is their identity
but you are the people you love.
You are a cornerstone, steady and solid,
a reassuring presence in your family circus.
An urgent plea intruded, ending our call,
leaving me with silence over Dublin Bay.
Marc Audet
Marc Audet lives near New Haven, Connecticut, where he is self-employed as a web application developer. He enjoys reading contemporary fiction and literature both English and French. He has traveled and lived in Canada, England, and Ireland. In addition to writing computer code in various languages, he also writes short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in “Potato Soup Journal”, “Across the Margin”, and “Books Ireland Magazine”.
strong heartfelt work.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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