Sunday, September 20, 2015

One Thing

My mom has been hospitalized for several weeks and I've been spending all my free time at the hospital.  While there, at my mom's bedside, and she was, at the moment, soundly sleeping, I wrote the following poem.

(I don't usually write in the Jack Kerouac "On the Road" "stream of consciousness" "interior monologue" narrative mode form.  However, I wanted to capture my thoughts at that moment.  And with my left hand holding my mom's and only my right hand free to work my phone to dictate my thoughts, using the "interior monologue" narrative mode form seem to be the obvious choice.)

One Thing

Through my mom's
Hospital room window,
The city, the world, everything,
Is small and vain.

In this moment,
With my hand
In the warm grasp of hers,
As she struggles to breath
And her pulse is weak,
There is only one thing.

Unlike the numerous "one things"
That came and went,
In which we really meant
One more thing,
This "one thing",
Pressed and distilled
From and by the very stuff of life
Is life's very essence.
The only metric
By which everything meaningful
Is measured.

In this moment
Of retrospective, introspective,
And prospective clarity,
The "one thing"
That really matters
Is love,
Only love.

In this moment,
I see that "one thing"
In my mom's hands,
A history
Written with the lines of her palms
Of unrequested forgiveness given
Of unnoticed selfless acts
Of an abundance of grace dispensed.

In this moment
I see a woman
Who clearly discerns life's "one thing"
And pursues
To become
A master of that "one thing"...
A master of love.

In this moment
As my gaze returns
From the window
To my mom's hands
I recognize that "one thing"
And it renders 
The city, the world, everything
Small and vain.