There Is An Opening, A Door
by Christina Watkins
There is an opening, a door.
When we see it we may step through
to where we know the more as more
of truth that lies beneath disguise.
What's false will tumble to the floor.
All that remains we'll know as You.
Under the guise of weak and poor
You are the truth that's good and wise.
Disguises lead us more and more
to all that shines as something new.
The richness that's disguised as poor
is joy that takes us by surprise.
In the years when I was becoming a young woman
my mother bought one pomegranate every September
to share with me at the dining room table.
Did she wonder then from her own life what my life would be?
The February of one particularly wintry season when she was fourteen
her mother died of sleeping sickness.
Much later I saw in her parent’s home a painting of Demeter and Persephone.
The women’s fingers stretched towards each other in the grey light.
The pinks and blues of their faces cool as earth
opened in the foreground to their distress.
Over the blue velvet sofa near the larger painting
a cherubic painting of my mother, aged three, drew me near.
One September I married and moved across the world.
I slept while my mother was awake missing me and then the reverse.
Every year I made my way back to her from time-zones
climates and cultures different from her own.
Deeply and lightly we mothered and daughtered each other.
One late September she passed into the larger season.
I have not eaten pomegranate seeds with my daughters.
We eat the fruit in juicy tender chicken dishes.
We drink together the bright juice mixed with sparkling lightly sugared water.
I write this for my mother
for my daughters …
for everyone who loves.