I am back to believing
nothing is ever one thing—
that in itself a contradiction,
because any time you use
something finite, you indicate
something else is singular,
that a something stands alone,
missing a partner. But if
we can get past all that,
moving on to emotions, let’s
say, everything is ambivalence,
everything a contrary mix
of grapes and compensatory salt
and sweetener, the confusion
of living surprise and love
and disappointment, utter joy
and complete devastation
at once, cocktails of grief
and giddiness in a vessel
probably made of the same
blown glass holding the same
concoction handed down
to you from your grandparents,
or their uncles, or great-great
aunts, more transparent souls
from the old country, simple
families who carried all
they owned on the frailty
of their backs, a bag of jumbled
spades and hoes, rude shirts
and rough socks, anything
that could easily shatter
wrapped in undergarments
and crying they kept to themselves
when they lost another baby,
or rejoiced that mother and child
both lived. I can picture how they
offered each other weak smiles
in secret, amid the anxiety of survival,
gripping each other’s hands
like there would be no next hour.
Like there was only two of them
amid the seasick passengers. She
would ask him, can I get you something
to sooth your stomach? He’d say
no thank you, green faced and brave,
too afraid to let her out of his sight.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright May 30, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
