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| 477 East 40th Ave, Eugene, Oregon 97405 |
| GALLERY OF POETRY |
Authors
Cindy Pitcairn
Sympathy Cards
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| In Safeway I search for just the right card in the sympathy section of the stand— I don‘t want an easy rhyme, just a phrase: wishing you peace or thinking of you, and no wispy pastels, lilies, or mist-filled vistas beyond an open garden gate. I know the importance of sending a card: my closet holds an old shoebox full, bound with a desiccated rubber band. One mentions how kind he was; another, how droll his humor. The comfort lies in knowing he was known, loved and was loved. This paltry treasure, these bits of paper speak of how common our existence, |
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| how elusive our soul |
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ACCESSIBILITY
A door can
be
a challenge
if
you’re going in
and
it opens out
or
you’re heading
out
and it opens in
especially
when it opens
on
your right
and
you have to
use
your right arm
to
hold it open
and
your left hand
to
steer the knob
on
the right side
of
your Quickie or Jazzy
(or
whatever chair you’re
lucky
enough to own)
and
thus though a ramp
may
bid you welcome
the door
tries to shut you out.
No Longer Useful
I stretch my right arm, the good one,
up from my wheelchair and pull down
the old quilt, frayed and gaping at the seams
once sewn by a grandmother of my aunt's friend.
They have all died— the grandmother,
the friend, my beloved aunt.
The quilt is worn, faded, and too thin
to give warmth--like love grown old
in long marriage, without passion now,
but still comforting in its familiarity.
Why keep something so useless, so ugly?
They have all died: I should discard it.
I don‘t. As if it might bring bad fortune
to disown it, I fold it carefully, like an acolyte
folding the linen the priest uses to wipe
the lip of the communion chalice.
I reach and place it back on the shelf—
for another time.
| May 12, 2003 My good son calls me from a thousand miles away. Like millions of other sons in their forties, he calls to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day. I have little news to share— a sortie to a concert last night of Haydn’s Creation. He tells me of the ‘62 Willys pick-up truck he just bought— a rare find it seems— with only 69,00 miles on it. A little boy pedaling a bright blue car in circles on the porch in Swarthmore four decades past flashes before me. We have traveled so many miles since then, but his eagerness beguiles me even now. Still the good mother, I don’t mention my own latest buy— new tires for my wheelchair. With I love yous we say our goodbyes. |
Unitarian Universalist Church
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