Wednesday, November 26, 2014

“The Second Year”

Two years  
Cramming days so full     
That exhaustion tumbles me into bed each night   
Drawing old friends into my orbit   
As I spin, spin, spin   
And throw-off grief and loss   
I pull on your fuzzy blue robe   
And snuggle into your warmth   
Memory lets me linger with your laughter   
Takes my hand and leads me to your crooked smile   
Tugs me out of those months of shadow and spills me into sunshine 
I speak of you, your battle, and the years of care  
Without weeping   
Softness swaddles my sadness   
Sorrow defines the second year   
Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Monday, November 24, 2014

“A Layer of Dust”

            I clean.
            When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.
            I clean.
            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.
            I clean.
            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.
            I clean.
            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.
            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.
            A layer of dust.
            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.
            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.
            A layer of dust.
            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.
            A layer of dust.
            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  
Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman