Self Portrait in 30 Years By Michelle Garren-Flye She sits on her porch as people go past, taking notice of what they bring into her past. Little bits of their lives that pepper the now… a tired mother…a crying child…now it’s all past. Her son mows the lawn now every two weeks. She likes it best when one week has passed, when the grasses breathe rustles and chirps echoing in her heart like songs from the past. Those days when everything hurt so much— if only she’d grasped that one day they’d be past. Her daughter brings groceries, unpacks them inside: “mom, come in, the summer’s heat is long past. You’ll catch cold out there in the autumn breeze. What keeps you outside when supper time is past?” She smiles and takes her daughter’s dear hand, hopes she’ll never know this longing for what’s past. She could have dreamed up a magic spell back then and stopped precious time before it had passed: when she was a happy, tired mother of three… now a lonely woman thinking only of the past. She searches the stars for Orion’s sword belt, Longs to fly to their light, leave this ache in the past.
Congratulations, it’s a ghazal (pronounced “guzzle” not “gu-ZAHL”, much to my disappointment).
Ghazals are hard to write due to their rhyme scheme, which involves repeating the same rhyme over and over. It can sound monotonous or forced. I’m just getting started playing with ghazals, so if it sounds monotonous or forced, I apologize.
The inspiration for this poem actually comes from a house. I used to walk by this house and see a little, old lady sitting on the front porch. I often wondered what her story was. I waved at her a few times, but before I got the nerve to stop and speak to her, I saw an ambulance there in the middle of the night. And then the little, old lady was gone.
I have no idea what happened to her, but her house is going through a major renovation. The porch is still there, though. I like to think she was lucky enough to spend her last days sitting on her front porch, maybe thinking of her loving children and eventually slipping away into her memories of past glories and loves.
Maybe that will be me someday. Because even if it’s painful to remember past sweet memories, it’s definitely better than not having them.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 