Lorelei Kay

Late Life Love

You’re not—

 

the center of my being,

or the total of my soul.

You’re not the reason that I breathe,

or all I need to make me whole.

 

Instead—

you’re a tropic balmy freshness

that drifts down deep inside,

softly filling empty spots

where yesterdays reside.

 

Like a palish-splendored rainbow

In the truest sky suspended,

assuring me—ardently—

the rain has finally ended.

 

  

Passage Home

 

“She’s deteriorating fast.

Hurry. Hurry home.”

 

I drive as fast as I dare, covering

the six hundred and eighteen miles

pushing through the California, Nevada,

 

and Utah deserts toward the blue-shingled

roof on Blair Street  where my parents lived

since I was in third grade.

 

But by the time I arrive at Mom’s bedside

to stroke her pale red hair  and whisper,

“I love you, Mom,” she doesn’t know

I am here.

 

I help Dad  bathe  her  with  bubble bath

lacing the water, this rag doll of a mom

who used to bathe me.

 

After Dad carries her back to bed,

I help him dress her, and inhale

the aroma of her bubble bath,

 

like the lilacs that burst out

in profusion each spring

in front of their home.

 

And the lilac scent

keeps the smell

of death away,

one day

at   a

time.

 

Wishing on a Braid

Mother-daughter morning ritual,

giggles and wiggles, as I comb

through her long dark hair,

 

dividing locks into three strands,

while gripping and tugging

at her bobbing head.

 

First strand over—

How I love

this little girl!

 

Second strand over—

I hope she’ll grow tall,

happy and strong.

 

Third strand over—

Yet how I wish she’d always

stay small!

 

Braiding strands together

Love—hope—wish. Love—hope—

wish. Love—hope—wish.

 

Nearing the end of the braid,

I pull all three lines taut

like my heart strings

 

and push down on her head.

“Please don’t grow up,” I whisper

as I fasten the bow.

 

But she did.