Real. Anniversaries are tough. Breathe. :

It is 4:45 a.m..

In the next room, my father moans in his sleep.
He may not be sleeping, as he moans.

He moans at night,
like a baby, or a wounded bear-cub, with its foot caught in a trap.

He passes his misery on,
as I toss and turn and finally fall
myself~~while awake.

**

Each day, I've tried to move forward.
I've never been as low as I've been the last few days...
...I don't want to leave my bed.

**
Today, I see two doctors.
One is going to talk to me about my depression;
the other, will examine my eyes,
my heart,
my bones,
and, chart where Marfan's syndrome has taken me.

**
Anniversaries are tough.
On Sunday, it will be two years since my mother's death~~
her passing has effected our family in ways unspeakable,
and ever-lasting (so it seems)....

**

....and, I miss her solidity, her outspokenness.
Everyone, including my father,
knew where they stood, when she was in a room.
She held nothing back,
and, gave up, too quickly....

**

....The air escaping;
the breath,
a fluttering of her heart~~
lifted,

and, gone.

**

Now, I see the circle we've traversed.
There is an opening,
between these moans, this crying.

**
I love the old man, in the next room...
There is no changing him.

In his eyes, I'm still the youngest,

All too real,
at 4:45...

...a.m.

**






Just breathe.

~x~ Will.