The Pilgrim

She walked.

Backpack, long curls tied tight.

Cane to the ground and face to the tower.

Her smile said what she accomplished:

Moved,

at the end of her journey,

her long time to think, grieve,

find and be 

herself.

She cried.

Unapologetic.

Elated.

A fleeting moment of witness,

I felt it with her.

The pushing, walking, thinking, surviving

The accumulated struggle.

Pain.

I watched it fall away for her,

for this moment

present and aware,

face to the height of the cathedral.

Tears, unquestioning.

I saw her breath

like an exhale and inhale

all at once.

I wanted to meet her eyes.

I wanted to hold her and be held by her.

I wanted to be there.

I quietly cried

while my hand played thumb war

with a giggling child

blessed to be unaware 

of the tightness in my chest

the pause in my breath

the desperate holding together of my bones 

wanting to crumble to the floor

in this, my only moment

seeing something around me, 

for me.

So glad for her.

So tired for me.

Eume

I slept beneath the earth.

To wake with some connection.

Like a light breeze,

beginning to turn the polkadot windmill

in the clay pot 

beside the aloe.

Moisture returned and I wept

knowing it would pass.

I’d look up again.

The windmill is spinning now.

Fragas

Carrying a sadness

Uninspired

He’s a pleasant stranger and they act the part

Kind tones

Cold undertone

Careful

Is it my child

Saying mommy a thousand times

Is it my mind

Only grieving when afar

Is it the heat, the tired, the drink, 

the years gone by

I need to cry today