12 images Created 19 Jan 2022
My Mother, Dying, and My Husband, Living
THE WOMAN LIFTED HER WATER JAR, by Sam Ambler (my husband)–––––
The woman sat by the well
weary and hot, with droplets
falling from her brow.
In her eyes (if you looked
between heartbeats)
was a yearning for someone far away.
She was wistful with a tiny tear
welling up underneath her fragile face.
I could almost hear his name
spoken on the winds of the desert.
I stood in the shade of a date palm
and watched her.
She was not aware of me.
Her head tilted forward
with some memory too painful to hold
(the day they separated perhaps).
One tear fell from her lid onto her lap,
and then another
until there was enough to gather in a cup.
I walked forward
and bowed before her,
indicating my thirst.
The woman lifted her watery eyes,
and I drank.
The woman sat by the well
weary and hot, with droplets
falling from her brow.
In her eyes (if you looked
between heartbeats)
was a yearning for someone far away.
She was wistful with a tiny tear
welling up underneath her fragile face.
I could almost hear his name
spoken on the winds of the desert.
I stood in the shade of a date palm
and watched her.
She was not aware of me.
Her head tilted forward
with some memory too painful to hold
(the day they separated perhaps).
One tear fell from her lid onto her lap,
and then another
until there was enough to gather in a cup.
I walked forward
and bowed before her,
indicating my thirst.
The woman lifted her watery eyes,
and I drank.
