Epiphany on the Doorstep

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Social distancing continues to place a huge strain on even the closest relationships, I am reminded of a French couple I got chatting to some years ago in a café I had only popped into for a cuppa to get out of the rain.

Sometimes, when human relationships fall apart at the seams - for whatever reason - I think we give up on them too quickly. If any relationship is worth having, it is always worth at least trying to save. 

Hopefully, the other person will have the same idea.

As for waiting for the other person to make the first move, that’s rarely a good idea if only because the chances are that he or she will be thinking along much the same lines.  

We don’t lose face (and far more) by coming forward, only by holding back.

The couple? Well, strangers we were and strangers we remain. They told me they were on a second honeymoon after almost divorcing.

The poem? Mind-body-spirit, already working on it even as we were chatting, the rain easing, sunshine determined to get the better of dark clouds …

EPIPHANY ON THE DOORSTEP

We lived a House of Broken Dreams,

where many like us gone before

to salvage what wreckage they can,

among leftovers strewn on the floor

You would hover on the front doorstep,

anticipating the Collector's killing

of once dear (if piecemeal) aspirations, 

swept away, ostensibly for recycling

Wearing a knowing smile, the Collector

(as always) when he makes a call,

would rummage, and then take his pick

of cast-offs, once tagged 'sentimental'

I joined you there, confessed secret fears

(for the future, loneliness beckoning);

you confided yours, we shared hot tears

for a lifetime of deaf-blind reckoning

All but strangers if still the best of friends

(together, yet apart, all our lives);

suddenly, at our House of Broken Dreams,

we glimpsed hope in each other’s eyes

Shared epiphany, as the Collector came by

(once, invited to take what he will);

both agreeing to look home truths in the eye,

cease pretending a penchant for free fall

Never again would the Collector come calling;

no leftovers of love here, only the real thing

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2020