Adapting to the Quiet, Again

Adapting to the Quiet, Again;

The Empty Swing – by Don Mathis

The emotional distress from an empty nest can stem from a second generation’s absence.  

The empty swing

reminds me

of the days last month

my grandkids touched the sky

on the upswing arc,

touched my heart,

the heart that pounded with joy

twenty-five years ago

when I hung the swing

for my son,

the son I longed

to spend more time with,

and now I long to spend

more time with the grands,

moved to my home last summer,

my tiny house barely big enough

to hold my son, my grandson,

my granddaughter,

my heart big enough to hold

the joys of countless firsts,

the first time to the ocean,

the first river parade,

the first opera, the first ballet,

and now the dance is over

and the rhythm of tiny feet

and the song of tiny voices

echo in the faded and folded

crevasses of this old aged brain,

the brain that relished

simple chores of pick up,

drop off at school,

the pleasure of providing

breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

the wind down of the day,

brushing teeth together,

one more drink of water,

and a bedtime book

read to attentive ears,

the ears that surprised me

by listening, then repeating,

the legacy I longed to impart,

the words of my ancestors,

the wisdom

from my family of origin,

distilled in my life,

now ready to bequeath

to my family of destiny,

but now curtailed

by ghosts of fate,

spur of the moment decisions,

conclusions attained

with no input from me,

but disturb the skin of my soul,

disrupt the breath of my spirit,

distract the anima

of my contentment,

until all essence

hangs suspended

like an empty swing.

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