Post Script

I wrote another poem today (I think this will be my last one for Creative Writing). I wrote it during Personal Communication, so it might be sort of depressing. Sorry about that.

History is a memory,

like how the smell of clean rubber

still brings to mind

hardwood floors and mirrors,

and cold hearts in denial.

History is in people.

My son made the decision

to pull the plug on his comatose daughter.

Her absence is a chasm between us...

I can hardly look at my son.

History is in notebooks

stacked carefully in a closet;

stored, but not forgotten.

They chronicle a long life:

a woman, weary under the weight of her mistakes.

History is now.

I didn't used to know that.

I wish I had.

I would have spoken of my love for them

so that, now, I wouldn't be so alone.

POST.