On the anniversary of such a somber ocassion, there is little to say that does not border on the mawkish or the idiotic. This, in fact, will be all that I say on the matter--other than the prayers that I offer for all.
I wrote the following poem after my mother died and I dedicate it respectfully to all of those who have been left behind.
Orpheus
Steven Riddle
for my motherIn green finery she walks the hallowed floor
(the clipping of her slippers on the wood
throws me off guard) and moves to the door
that leads to the hall where the glass-cased
Bastille key fills the wall (more or less)
and onward without a word into the blue
ballroom with chairs along the wall as though just
moments ago cleared for the first dance.
She neither glances back nor moves her head,
but glides on quietly, assured of her step--
her destination--the boxwood hedge--she leads
me and seems to know I follow, though how
I cannot say. Through the wrought-iron gate,
she scuffs the brownstones of the path
as she moves to the center, there to wait
for me. Still she does not face me, but I know
her for one who lost me years ago as she went
on and I was left behind. So now I go
through the gate and up the garden path,
praying as I do that she does not look back.
And then a glance, a moment's lapse, a laugh
(or is it a cry?) breaks the quiet and
as a storm surge tears the sand from the beach
I am pulled from the path-gone-out of her reach.
Pulled back, bereft of this promised paradise,
I now know what it is to be Eurydice.c2002 Steven Riddle
