5-11-94 (period)


“The death of a child is a period before the end of a sentence.”
Carl Jung

Loss and survival held in small hands
Pure smile before the mask
I had to ask my mother
What I was like when I was five
My memory unseated on the board

I find myself crying for a young girl
Who I never met
Yet I know her and many others
Better than the closest child
Such wise teachers in small clothes
Show me things I’d turned my back on
So basic, uncomplicated, filled with nothing but want and love
I hold them close to save the moment
Allowing me to see the eyes of a younger self

My life is unwrapped, paper and tape stuck to my shoe
Gifts children play with for an hour, break and get bored with
Now later, the fascination returns to the present
The present
Love given, love lost, a life bettered by the association
I have lived more than one lifetime
And am grateful for each moment
My tears cleansed by smiles
From other miracles.