April 1911

The pale introversion paints the morning stillness. A tender moment in the kitchen. It's 7 o'clock. I'm teaching you to make a crepe because your mother and father never did. In the warm air, sweet with strawberries in the summer; I feel like the simple joy lasts forever. But it never does. My god, it never does. 

Now the same counter is clean and tidy. No flour, no strawberries, no scrap of love left in its corners. That was years ago. You have gone. The years in-between have come to nothing. I feel a deep rotting in my bones. After tragedy has arrived, it makes a home. And then you can rename it whatever you like but it hasn't changed. Most call theirs Grief. 

I call it Consequence. The face to the thing that torments. 

I haven't known peace since I forgot how to make a crepe. And of course, at the end of a lifetime, I'm finding that love actually is all around. But that it might be totally lost on me. A desperate sense of agony possesses a person to describe a memory in such illness. One wants the pain to chase the liquor, chase the dawn's edge, as far as the eye can see. Perhaps bury itself in the garden and decay. It won't. 

Melancholy is a clingy weed. 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Dear Anna. You are writing with Hemingway thoughts.
" One wants the pain to chase the liquor, chase the dawn's edge, as far as the eye can see. Perhaps bury itself in the garden and decay. It won't.
Melancholy is a clingy weed. "
The above lines could stand alone. Lately in old age. I need to drink. Maybe to forget, maybe to remember? Powerful and worthwhile poetry dear poet.
Coyote

[Franky]

How true and insightful! I love the last line.