23 February 2013
She always sat by the door
She always sat by the door, Her coat stayed buttoned Both feet on the floor As if ready to run. She never looked you in the eye, Gaze fixed, slightly left Or else scanning constantly Ever prepared to flee.
A good day was not to be seen, Or noticed at all. Mind fixed in daydream, Allowed to withdraw. So we would never see The fear, pain, despair, The void, vast, empty Truth of no way out.
But joy may yet flow. It surprises her. Even in the midst of sorrow The two mingle, bittersweet. Sudden, blessed, beautiful love. But watch, wait, stay awake. The black won't move. It never does.
Which is stronger? Which will hold out The longer? Which has victory? Ah, the truth is The past has a price. She has always known this. And is prepared to pay.
She is a survivor. We can never understand What she has fought for. She has promised herself not to say. This is her gift to me and mine. That we will never, ever know The devastating truth behind Why she always sat near the door.
This poem is based on a conversation I had recently and is a mark of my admiration and respect for all those survivors out there
She Always Sat By The Door • Opuss № I