Dear Diary,
Today has brought with it a brand new day, along with its graying skies and chilled dew. As I sit here, the beginnings of a particular Shakespearean sonnet come to mind…
“That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang…”
Take care everyone.
Love,
Phoebe and Samantha
Moisture burning her vision.
In the dark, it hides her eyes.
Teardrops.
Clinging onto her, one falls onto her lap
and stains her skirt.
She mourns.
Comfort her.
Tell her it will be okay.
That the shadow of a moment
may not stretch into tomorrow’s light.
That the ocean,
at its blackest
is still a reflection of the sky,
and she will not drown.
But the tide has come to take you home.
To her smile and her strength
she bids farewell.
Her heart, a piece borrowed and now returned,
departs with you.
She says goodbye.
A few words by Shakespeare which speak more truthfully than any piece I could write at the moment…
The flaming sighs that boil within my breast
Sometime break forth; and they can well declare
The heart’s unrest, and how that it doth fare,
The pain thereof, the grief, and all the rest.
The watered eye, from whence the tears do fall,
Do feel some force or else they would be dry…
Some people call this a hospital.
I like to call this a place of my P’s.
A hidden treasure
in a downtown peach orchard
where all my P’s roam.
But don’t panic.
Let’s pause.
This is the place
where physicians palpate,
pain is palliated,
and papillae are poked.
Patients are pacified,
parking is pitiful,
penlights are peddled,
and parolees panto.
But me?
I just call this home.
•
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