(my transitions poem. It’s klnd of long, but then again, so are our lives—lucky, lucky!)
Ordinary Days
We promised, in sickness and health,
through the depths and heights
of our experiences
to love until death do us part.
After the I do’s, we assumed
only good times ahead.
Young forever and healthy.
Illness and tragedy were for other people.
I could not have known
we would birth two boys
and one would transition to a girl.
I could not have known my brother would
die young, from war-related cancer, then
you would get war-cancer, and survive
after six months of chemo, two ambulance rides,
plus, two stays in intensive care.
Terrifying, but lucky again.
Now in our years labeled golden
we are again the other people
enduring two months of multiple surgeries,
grateful we are able to care for each other,
coming out on the other side, repaired, restored.
Those early years were all luck and happiness
shoring up fond memories
for the scary days when we needed a laugh
or a simple gift of something ordinary.
When did we realize it was half over?
Each birthday moving the notch of halfway ahead
35? 40? 45? It does not compute.
We have outlived our grandparents who died in their sixties.
Our parents died in their eighties and nineties.
It happened so quickly to be next in line.
Our job now, to enjoy ordinary days:
this tree, the hammock in the breeze,
our kayaks on quiet water, autumn’s golden light
on a wooded trail, the dry-cold night
of this January full moon.
###
Note: I used “this” twice in the last stanza. I could say “of a january full moon.” But I wanted it to sound urgent so used “this”, again. Does that sound ok?
REVISION 02-10-2022
(I changed stanza 1 a bit, to empahsize the “custom words” from our vows). Thanks for the recognition of my “exposition” — hard to catch when I am so close to it sometimes.)
Ordinary Days
We promised
in sickness and health,
through the depths and heights
of our experiences
to love until death do us part.
After the I do’s we assumed
heights, not depths,
only good times ahead.
Young forever and healthy.
I could not have known
we would birth two boys
and one would transition to a girl.
I could not have known my brother would
die young, from war-related cancer, then
you would get war-cancer, and survive
after six months of chemo, two ambulance rides,
plus two stays in intensive care.
Now in our years labeled golden
we’ve endured months of multiple surgeries,
grateful we are able to care for each other,
coming out on the other side, repaired, restored.
When did we realize it was half over?
Each birthday moving the notch of halfway ahead
35? 40? 45? It does not compute.
We have outlived our grandparents.
Our parents are gone.
It happened so quickly to be next in line.
Our job now, to enjoy ordinary days:
this tree, this hammock in the breeze,
these kayaks on quiet water,
autumn’s golden light on a wooded trail,
the dry-cold night
of this January full moon.