The Rabbit Hole

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  • Life

    Poem Commentary

    Author Notes

    We will all face this stage in life if we live to a ripe old age. How we deal with our own advancing years depends greatly on how we deal with our parents in their hour of need.

    On the back side of being alive
    Everything thus far has occured
    In the blink of an eye.

    I asked my sister, "Can you imagine finding yourself living the last few years of your life regretting the choices you've made? Can you imagine living with regret to your dying day because of past mistakes?"

    Sister replied, "That would be a living hell."

    The Rabbit Hole

    Mama is slipping down the rabbit hole
    Inch by inch.
    We reach as far as we can.
    We beg.
    We plead.
    Oh God, please.
    Still she slips farther and farther
    Beyond our reach.

    One night with much anger guiding her footsteps
    Mama slips out into the darkness
    In her nightgown.
    She has no coat on.
    It is cold.
    She is shivering.
    In the darkness we see her walking towards the fire's light.

    "I want to know who hung up the phone on me!"
    Mama demands.

    No one did mama.
    We swear.
    Wrap yourself in this sweater
    So you will stay warm.
    Come let your daughters walk you home.

    I lag behind
    Absorbing the scene before my soul's eyes.

    Trees blanketed with stars
    Shadow their footsteps
    With a circle of light to guide them I watch
    As mother and daughter walk hand in hand
    Slowly back to the house.

    I think,
    Mama will not long be with us.

    Safely home again
    Sister says,
    "Oh I can't stand this."
    Then disappears.

    Denial,
    With alcohol's aid,
    Will help sister sleep again tonight.

    Mama is slipping down the rabbit hole
    Inch by inch.
    We beg.
    We plead.
    Oh God, please.
    Still she slips farther and farther
    Beyond our reach.

    Daddy, and siblings insist
    Mama is fine.
    There is nothing wrong with her mind.
     

     


     


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    Poetry is what is lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Sandina’s Poems (8)

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