I wanted to treat feelings that are not recognized as afflictions and are never diagnosed by doctors. All those little feelings and emotions no therapist is interested in,
because they are apparently too minor and intangible.
The feeling that washes over you when another summer nears its end.
Or when you recognize that you haven’t got your whole life left to find out where you belong.
Or the slight sense of grief when a friendship doesn’t develop as you thought,
and you have to continue your search for a lifelong companion.
Or those birthday morning blues.
Nostalgia for the air of your childhood.
Things like that.
~Nina George from The Little Paris Bookshop
A white vase holds a kaleidoscope of wilting sweet peas
captive in the sunlight on the kitchen table while
wafting morning scent of pancakes
with sticky maple syrup swirls on the plate,
down the hall a dirty diaper left too long in the pail,
spills over tempera paint pots with brushes rinsed in jars after
stroking bright pastel butterflies fluttering on an easel
while wearing dad’s oversized shirt buttoned backwards
as he gently guides a hand beneath the downy underside
of the muttering hen reaching a warm egg hiding in the nest
broken into fragments like a heart while reading
the last stanza of “Dover Beach” in freshman English
Just down the hall of clanging lockers
To orchestra where strains of “Clair de Lune” accompany
the yearning midnight nipple tug of a baby’s hungry suck
hiccups gulping in rhythm to the rocking rocking
waiting for a last gasp for breath
through gaping mouth, mottled cooling skin
lies still between bleached sheets
illuminated by curtain filtered moonlight just visible
through the treetops while whoosh of owl wings
are felt not heard, sensed not seen.
Waking to bright lights and whirring machines
the hushed voice of the surgeon asking
what do you see now, what can you hear, what odor,
what flavor, what sensation on your skin
with each probe of temporal lobe, of fornix
and amygdala hidden deep in gray matter
of neurons and synaptic holding bins of chemical transmitters
storing the mixed bag of the past and present
to find and remove the offending lesion that seizes up
all remembrance, all awareness
and be set free again to live, to love, to swoon at the perfume
of spring sweet peas climbing dew fresh at dawn,
tendril wrapping over tendril,
the peeling wall of the garden shed
no more regrets, no more grief
no more sorrow.