The Idea-smithy

From across a continent,
a voice, faraway and yet too close for comfort
drawls her name and rumbles on about life, the way she is supposed to live.
It interrupts her silence to ask, have you forgiven?
…………..have you forgotten?……

An inconspicous looking email in her inbox carries a long, flowery poem,
the kind that she might have written once,
linking two names she knows,
One of them seems to blur and expand and blots the rest of the words out
and she knows RSVP or not, she’ll still be there.
…..why should it still matter?….  

Her phone buzzes in a meeting with a message,
asking how she is and if she’s free for lunch
then they can catch up on news about him
from the last time they spoke
It ends with “We really should get to know each other”
……no, perhaps not, but I’ll still come……

She’s trying not to get lost in other people’s conversations
and her silence is never heard
as others fill in the words they’ve been hearing her speak
and want to continue hearing
about families and friendship
and happiness and life being too short
and the people in one’s life mattering most of all.
…….did I ever……..?…………

And there were all the photographs
Of the ceremony, of the early times,
of all the rituals these days
Her name’s on the top of everyone’s mailing list.
But she’s not in any picture
And its a wonder they turned out so fine
Because the photographer was blinking back the unpermitted
when the flash blinded everyone else

…….and sometimes life seems like a Dali dream………