A Whisper of Hope
she
sits
and
gazes at the
Illuminated
tree
and
waits
for
the magic
to
descend into her heart
on
the outside she is sixty
but
inside
she
is still six
and
in one
Shimmering,
searing moment
she
glimpses the truth
that
the reason
magic
is elusive this year
is
simple, really
this
little girl
is
longing for
her
mother and grandmother
in
order
to
celebrate
Christmas
and
the pinprick of pain
that
startles her heart
is
the remembered knowledge
that
every Christmas
hence
will
be without them
so
memories
painful
as they are when stirred
are
what is left
so
she must be
brave
to
face this Christmas
she
breathes in the scent of pine
and
dries her tears
and
walks toward the memories
she
dances through the Christmases
together,
throughout her life
as
they swirl and play in her heart
until
the lasts
and
somehow, though it’s painful,
it
helps
and
her grown-up self
comforts
her six-year-old self
who
feels orphaned
and
in the knowing
comes
gentleness
and
the beginnings of acceptance
for
we are here
to
rescue ourselves
after
all
and
the memories
of
Christmases past
are
born anew
the
pain
patina-ing
with time
and
healing
and
the lights on the tree
sparkle
with the love
that
lingers, still
this
Christmas
as
she gazes at the tree
she
will remember
and
with it
will
come
a
quiet kind of joy
the
echo of
Christmases
past
heard
and felt today
with
a whisper
of
hope
for
the days to come
grief
is
a
hole in your heart
that
never goes away
you
never
really
“get over” it
life
just grows around it
and
just when you think
it’s
starting to heal
it
opens wide again
healing
happens
don’t
get me wrong
but
it will always be there
the
loss
the
grief
the
missingness
but
you learn to
breathe
through
this
open gap in your life
to
put one foot in front of the other
to
get up each day
and
go about your life
without
this person
was
and is and will always be
your
core, your center, your heart
to
maybe have an hour
or
even a few minutes
of
not thinking about it
but
then when you do
it
comes right back
a
boomerang of heartache
so
you breathe
and
walk
and
try to live
nothing
can ever
totally
fill the space
this
open hole crates
in
its openness
lie
all the memories
and
even more, the love
so
in a way
the
grief itself, with the memories
is
its own solace
and
if the hole ever
fully
closed
then
you’d be gone for good
so
painful as it is
grief
brings back your love,
although
you are gone
grief
is
a
hole in my heart
where
you will always be
as
it heals
let
there be a small opening left
where
your love lives on
Your Birthday
Your
birthday is this
Week
and you are even more
On
my mind and heart
I
miss being able
To
hold your hand in person
To
talk by phone
I
miss being able
To
tell you about my life
And
hear about yours
I
miss being able
To
celebrate good things
And
talk about bad
I
miss being able
To
tell you how much I love you
And
to be loved by you
My
heart yearns for just
One
more day with you to be
Your
daughter again
Returning Home
Returning
home
To
a place I didn’t grow up
For
25 years
No
roots of my own
But
shared memories
With
you
In
a very real way
Your
home has become
My
second home
Someone
else lives
Where
I grew up and
It’s
their home now
But
in my mind’s eye
I
visit there
Whenever
I want
One
day I’ll return
And
knock on the door
To
visit for real
Fingertips
I
have begun to wonder about
The
fingertips that touched my
1926
Underwood model five
That
I picked up for a song
At
an Estate Sale recently
Who
knows if I’ll ever get it
In
working order
But
for now
It’s
purpose is to give me joy
And
to help me wonder
You
are 97 years old
Just
a few years short of
The
104 years that my
Beloved
grandmother lived
Until
she died last year
You
have seen a long
And
rich life
And
I wonder
Who
has touched your keys
With
their fingertips
Before
me
When
my parents married
They
were young -
In
their early 20s -
And
times were tight
So
one thing went
To
make room for
Another
My
mom had my dad trade in
A
gun that he had
To
finance the typewriter
She
bought to type
Her
college papers
I
always loved that story
A
modern-day
Guns
into plowshares story
So
now I wonder
What
motivated
Your
first owner to buy a typewriter
In
the first place
When
you were first brought home
From
the store
Heavy
beyond belief
Filled
with metal and brand-new parts
Did
a young woman
Plunk
you on the kitchen table
Roll
paper into you
And
begin to type in earnest?
Was
she practicing for an
Office
job
Or
maybe doing the records for the family farm
Or
writing a letter to someone far away
Or,
like my mom, and me later,
Typing
papers for school
Or
Did
a wealthy family
Buy
you for their staff
To
use
In
an upstairs
Downstairs
Kind
of fashion
Or
Did
a newspaper buy you
For
their workers to use
One
of a hundred of your kind
To
fill a room with
The
sound of news stories
Being
written
Or
Did
a poor struggling
Writer
Sell
their last piece of jewelry
Inherited
from their
Relatives
who passed
To
buy you
In
a one-sided
Gift
of the Magi
Situation
Whatever
the reason
Was
for initially
Buying
you
Things
were readily changing
In
our world
Right
at the moment
You
first came home
I’m
imagining
That
young woman
Who
was typing all the
Records
for her family farm
But
Also
Stealing
away moments to
Type
letters on your keys
To
a love (as yet undisclosed to him)
Who
had moved away recently
Her
fingertips flying
Across
the rows
And
she was pouring out her
Heart
And
her longings
Through
your taps
Onto
each page
What
she didn’t know
Was
how her life was going to change
In
just a few short years
Her
days would lengthen
With
added work at home
As
her farming family
Faced
both
The
Dust Bowl
And
the Great Depression
Simultaneously
When
she could
Steal
away for a minute or two
Her
letters were filled
With
heartache
And
angst
As
her life
Grew
dimmer and
Smaller
With
each passing day
Many
of her neighbors
Abandoned
their farms and moved
West
or north
Looking
for work
Looking
for a future
But
her family
Dug
in and endured
Her
moments
At
your keyboard
Were
a salvation
To
pour out her longing
For
a fresh start
In
a new place
Without
so much
Loss,
destruction and desolation
Her
four brothers
Felt
the same
But
their parents
Held
the trump card
We
own the farm
We’re
staying
Her
white pages
Of
letters, tucked into envelopes
And
mailed with a penny stamp
When
a penny could be
Scraped
together
Would
turn into
Aerograms
Which
everyone called
Blueys
As
her friend
Shipped
out overseas
To
war
Along
with her four brothers
She
picked up work from home
To
type up people’s documents
On
you
Sort
of like a modern-day
Clerk
and recorder
Or
notary public
She
typed wedding certificates
On
you
Birth
certificates
Death
certificates
Far
too many death certificates
Mortgages
Repossessions
Many,
many repossessions
It
was a helpful job
Earning
money for her family
But
it was depressing work
And
she longed
For
more time
To
type from the heart
On
you
For
in her letters
She
was unknowingly
Writing
a novel
Of
her life
Her
friend wrote back
Regularly
And
shared learned of his longings
As
well
She
kept every one of his letters
And
anticipated the day
When
he would return from war
And
she could share
In
person
The
thoughts of her heart
But
that chance never came
Instead
Her
letters were returned in a box
Which
arrived on the same day
As
his final letter
Finally
Unequivocally
Declaring
his love
As
she read his letter
Through
tear-stained eyes
She
reached for a piece of paper
And
began typing
Their
story
Including
every letter she had written
And
his in return
And
filling in the blanks
She
continued
To
type on you more and more
After
that
You
were how she healed
From
losing the
Love
of her life
From
losing so much
During
the Dust Bowl
The
Great Depression
The
War
But
their was life beyond those
And
in turning to words
She
healed
Shortly
after her first book was published
Which
would be followed
In
close stead
By
others
About
her life
About
her hopes and dreams
And
about the life
They
might have made together
Electric
typewriters began to be
Seen
in stores in the small
Downtown
shops of her town
But
she was loyal to you
You
had gotten her through
The
worst imaginable times
Of
her life
And
she couldn’t imagine
Writing
on any other machine
Although
to think of you
As
a machine
Was
a laugh
You
had become
Her
best friend
Her
confidant
When
her nieces and nephews
Came
over
For
miraculously
All
four of her brothers
Had
survived the war
Married
and had families
They
each typed papers
For
high school and
Later
college
On
you
Their
families had
Typewriters
of their own
But
you were special
You
had history
You
had your own
Unique
voice
And
they found it easier
To
write their creative writing
Assignments
on you
The
words came easier
When
their fingertips touched
Your
keys
As
if you knew what they wanted to say
Before
they did
Jennifer Gurney lives in Colorado where she teaches, paints,
writes and hikes. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including
Lothlorien, The Ravens Perch, HaikUniverse, Haiku Corner, Cold Moon Journal,
Scarlet Dragonfly and The Haiku Foundation.
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