Loss

Mask

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Another year, pages

Of smiling faces, family members

Arms wrapped around shoulders

Hugs so tight you can’t breathe

Of better times when we laughed, ate cake

Together

When Uncle Jim would play Santa

And Aunt Wilma forgot tags on gifts

Slippery ice made walking paths dangerous

Between cabins warmed by gathered crowds 

sipping cocktails or beer

Together

Popcorn strings a merry substitute

For the finer tree décor back home

No lights except those we imagined

But no one cared because

We were happy to be there

Together

In an alpine setting far from town

Smoke billowed from our chimneys

Leaving just enough room for a sleigh

The sound of carols filled the kitchen

Joyous and merry on the outside

Together

A name drawn from a red cap

Decided who would go next 

To choose a gift to open

From the annual exchange

Of unknown donors

Together

Merrymaking clarified life then

Created a mask of perfection

Family, love and joyous times

Reason to live, reason to sing

Because we were

Together

What became of the laughter

Can only be surmised by time

Hardships of life

People disappear from the photos

Year after year, no more

Together

Busy lives lost in a tv screen

Talking to no one and everyone

With hopes of notoriety 

Influential words that no one 

Reads or wants to

Together

Impossible flights to nowhere

Century storms keep us alone

Destined to never repeat

What is obvious in those pages

Of smiling faces, family members

Together


—Victoria Emmons, ©2022

Crumbs

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The trail you leave behind

in the kitchen

tells me

you want to be found,

not yet lost, but

still searching

 

I consider

my future with you

a morning ritual of baguette crumbs

from our favorite shop

scattered on the counter and floor

crunching under my feet

 

I wait in line

to buy the last loaf

standing tall in its bread basket

fresh in the early morning

still warm from the oven

the way you like it

 

I know there will be crumbs

and the trail that remains

after your midnight feast

of peanut butter and honey

on a toasted slice

yet I buy the baguette anyway

 

I carry my own crumbs

remnants of a life before you

a different time, different goals

hope, fear, love, disappointment

greatest joy and deepest sadness

challenges that we both faced

 

I didn’t know I was searching for you

we were both lost

in our thoughts, in our grief

As life proceeded with little consequence

as though everything was normal

So we normalized life

Together

 

I stand here for you

knowing that a life

of eloquent words

and a trail of bread crumbs

left behind in the morning

has captured my heart

Victoria Emmons, ©2019

Freeze Frame

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Stuck in the age of Covid-19, racing to nowhere except a way out of this box to which the world has been condemned, a prison cell of prevention, or not, for those unlucky thousands who carry coronavirus with them to their graves, leaving the rest of us to worry about droplets lingering for days on Amazon delivery boxes, empty grocery store shelves, dirty gas pump handles, or our own Fido’s nose, even a child’s hand fresh from a playground jungle gym when the real jungle is Mother Earth spinning in all her infected glory, laughing as she twirls leaving that voice message that cries, “I told you so.”

—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2020

Unfair

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Unfair that I should
lay back
on a comfortable chaise
next to a clear, blue
pool of running water,
a sound to calm my nerves,
steady my heart,
settle my head,
reconcile what is left
of a rather long life.

Unfair that a mother
should grieve
her young son,
a father should
bring his daughter
home to Pakistan
in a coffin,
a birthday party
should be cancelled
in favor of a funeral,
the boy turned 17
still hugs his
creation laying silent
on an art room floor.

Unfair that death
to others is the answer
to self loathing,
revenge the choice
for an unkind word,
no matter the tool —
fist to the nose,
trigger to the head,
stab to the heart —
killing the answer.

Unfair that funerals
beget more funerals,
a killing ground for
the lonely, desperate,
duped, a-political
turned fanatic,
the baby born
with no mother,
no love, no compassion,
no enthusiasm for life.

Unfair that life
is over when
it is over.
No second thoughts.
No second chance to rewind,
reconsider the action,
hate, killing,
the tragedy
about to unfold.
Always one,
that one sad person
ready to pull the trigger.

—Victoria Emmons, 5/20/18

A Prayer for Cold Feet

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Do not set foot
into a black limousine.
A ride through empty streets
makes the dream real.

No pretend toe tag,
coroner’s signature required.
Son rescues a wedding ring
from a burial far too deep.

Well-placed calls to
sisters, brothers and daughters.
Search for an American flag
to drape across a wooden coffin.

Images of sixty-some years
pasted to a display board
filled with silly grins
at milestone occasions.

Give me a handkerchief,
please. Be there for me,
you, a witness to
love, family, legacy.

Write your name in a book
to remember celebrants
for a friend, father, grandpa,
brother, husband, lover.

Shoe pinches my toe
with each step toward
sympathetic arms outstretched,
pinches my heart.

If the shoe hurts
I don’t have to wear it.
Allow me, dear Lord,
to live with cold feet.

—Victoria Emmons, © 2017
For Karen

Missing

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A missing appendage
Makes it hard to type
Close a button
Pick up a dime

The departed pointer finger
Lost to a sharp buzz saw
Building hearth and home
To keep a family safe

Lost, but found, the finger tip
Still feels, still grows its own claw
Offers refuge for gnawing concerns
That cloud a hectic day

Gone, but not forgotten,
Memories reside in time
Within an absent piece of flesh
Imagined to be whole

Finger the missing edge
Feel it, love it, massage
Its invisible core
Until it reappears

Make it whole again
Make yourself whole
Resume your heartbeat
Nothing missing

–Victoria Emmons, copyright, 2017

Resurrection 

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I feel the warmth of your arms surround me
as years wash away, a long moment of grief
expressed in a hug too tight for a child,
a man without a father.

History powerful enough to tear down
walls of time belies reason.
A sepia photograph reminds of
bygone youth, shared play,
picnics at the zoo. 

Sadness and joy clash on this day,
memories well up in your eyes and mine.
Tales to tell, remembrances, laughter and love.
Shrimp, crayfish and oysters
on the table before us.

Thundering rain upon heavy limbs
laden with green resurrection ferns.
A damp night of conversation and thoughtful
stories, but no campfire.

Spring awaits summer, hot and sticky,
sweat follows the length of your temples,
beads on your forehead.
Love beats in your heart.
Family swells in your mind.

A homecoming of sorts, we gather to mourn,
remark the change in lines on our faces,
spill our absent lives into one another’s.
Four score years should not pass
before shared warmth.

Believing the other will always exist,
somewhere in the annals of our history,
part of the natural order of our universe,
a comfort zone to our souls,
does not make it so.

Create a pact, dear ones.
Share more of life in
years to come.
Let’s not wait for
the next family funeral.

—Victoria Emmons, May 2017

For cousins

Three-Quarters of a Breath

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Soft sounds count each breath with
clarity, mindfulness and motion.
Every swell erupts into hope, rises and falls
in fullness, leaving joy as a postscript.

Breathe in to fill three-quarters,
that which is left of a lung, a section
disappeared one sunny morning, a favorite
corner rendered useless by a scalpel.

Pushing air out even harder,
pain shoots down the spine,
suffocates the rib cage and the heart.
But the heart still loves, still smiles.

Life breathes in three-quarter beats,
arouses a heart to sing, a soul to pray,
a mind to dream. Invites love to play
under a delicious full moon.

Count the breaths. One. One-half.
How many birthdays, he asks.
Grandma, that’s a lot of birthdays.
A lot more to come, you say.

Smell a future filled with fresh air,
even in three-quarter beat. Hear the
sound of laughter, the voice of strength
residing in a cage meant to be opened.

Make songs with every breath when
air and music wed as one. Sing for
respite. Sing for hope. Sing for life,
notes attaching to the summer wind.

–Victoria Emmons, May 2017

For Jill.