How I Feel
October 7, 2017 § 13 Comments
How I feel when I breathe in that smell of rain-soaked earth.
When I drink too much and my voice comes out too loud.
When I touch my father’s false teeth.
When my mother’s eyes flickered open and stared at me the moment before she died.
When I close the door of my studio and think I’ll never paint again.
The warm lick of my daughter’s dog.
That silence in the middle of a conversation which I always want to fill and wish I didn’t.
When I regret I am in love.
When I get away with a small white lie.
When I have my hair cut and get bored listening to the gossip.
When the doorbell rings, or the phone, and I don’t feel like answering it.
When I don’t look forward to him coming home, because although I love him dearly I want to be by myself.
When I dream of my dead brother and we smile at one another and I know he’s not really gone at all. I just can’t see him.
And when a poem comes and I don’t have a pencil, so I race home holding it tight before I lose it. Sometimes it’s too fast and slippery and it escapes.
How I feel.
Image of ‘Christina’s World’ courtesy the estate of Andrew Wyeth