Several years ago I had the privilege of meeting a most wonderful and courageous and inspiring woman who has become a very good friend of mine. I never had the joy of meeting her first born, a son. He passed away at the age of four, long before I met her. As a mother, a parent, there is no way I know how that feels. This poem is to my friend Deb, who does know exactly how it feels.
WHILE SLICING LEMONS
I think about him, your son,
how four brief years of life fill
so few album pages, how you
ache for more anyway.
I think about drinking too much
just to savor a little sleep
waking to his face
in the bathroom tiles
a bowl of cereal
a stranger’s eyes.
How everything is out of tune
or the volume requires
a steadier hand
until quiet settles
under your skin
rests uneasily
near a heart’s sigh.
How our lives are often
as battered and bitter
as the peel
of this lemon.
--Catherine Fraga
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