The Problem With Mother

So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

“Nature”,  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Death had better come prepared. She’s mad as hell at his incompetence. The playthings long gone. What left, is there? He stays away, and daily her ire increases.

The smile, she presents to the world, a shoddy mask of normality. Conversation never strays beyond small talk. Anything deeper bores her. Fading out into memory.

Everything has become flavourless. Limp. Bland. Entertainment joyless. Each day, the same as the last. Pain accompanies every move. The mind trapped. The body worthless.

This is not living. All that is left, is to wait. And in that space find forgiveness, just perhaps, for the love who left her alone.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly-doctor-like-controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

“Sonnet 66”, William Shakespeare

Wishing to let go