The tree is down and the angels are packed, both the kinds in the boxes and the ones back on planes.
I sit, decades after first becoming a mother, and am aware of Empty.
Aware that the sound of silence includes no footsteps from above the dining room ceiling and includes, instead, an annoying hum.
It takes a minute
It takes a minute to realize that that the hum is not a void, but, instead, an invitation. One that sighs I have shown you the caterpillars and seeds and even the trees and still you stubbornly grieve that this is an ending
Or is it a drum ?
Come, they told me,
Pa rum pum pum-pum…
Or is it a trumpet?
A newborn queen to see?
Pa rum pum pum-pum
I pause. Weep. Sing Willie Nelson and miss my grandma. Anything to distract from my own angelic dive
Toes gripping to what was,
The top of the tree so comfortably familiar.
I hear the blare of your trumpet, Hum. I hear the beating of your drum. I hear you loudest when you whisper, when obligation and anticipation have vanished and the pulse of the house is on pause.
Your patient, prodding invitation is the voice of angels
The ones no longer packed in boxes. The ones waiting to catch me when I leap.