Wake Up Little Amy, Wake Up

I must surely be on the way to a healthier psyche to be writing again.  For far too long I have felt like either I had nothing important to say or like I was too tired of hearing myself say the same old things over and over to keep repeating them.  Today, for the first time, I was able to write a poem again.  I will include it here at the end of this entry.  I'm sure these entries will seem disjointed and unedited (because they are), but as I begin to understand and realize things about myself, I am going to note them here for my own benefit, if for no one else's.

Jeff stresses often to me the importance of always being hopeful in every situation.  While I can rationally understand this viewpoint, it's not easy for me to be hopeful because so many times over the course of my adult life, the things I hoped for were the opposite of the things that happened.  I am glad that people are able to be hopeful, and I would like nothing better than for hope to become the default setting in my life.

And here is the poem that came to me as I read the section of Ellen Foster where her mother dies:

One more day,
Can I have one more day?
But the answer is always the same.
Her heart has stopped,
And mine goes on.

And I wish for some
Kind of reverse mothering,
Where I can keep her alive
With my body, like she
Kept me alive with hers,
But the answer is always the same.