By Linda A Cronin: A Practical Life and September in the Rehab
A Practical Life
By Linda A. Cronin
I don’t live a very practical life.
Working a nine to five job with a weekly paycheck,
married in a house in the suburbs,
with a mini-van sleeping in the driveway
waiting for the buzz of morning carpool.
Instead, I have spent my days
in and out of hospitals and chairs,
waiting, waiting, waiting,
for some doctor who will come along and fix me,
like a car waiting for the mechanic
who tinkers under the hood
tightens a thingamabob here,
changes a whatamacallit there,
and rotates the tires
before sending her off good as new
to travel a few thousand miles more
before being traded in for a fancier, flashier model.
I prepared for that practical life like a good Girl Scout.
Earning useful badges in accounting,
filling my sash with experience,
expanding my network of contacts,
all to land the perfect job,
where I’d earn my paycheck,
discover fulfillment behind a desk,
and find Mr. Right who would marry me
secure my financial future and
give me the kids and the house.
Instead, I should have
wandered in the night,
counting the stars glittering in the sky,
bought flowers that smelled like possibility
even in the dead of winter and
hid, tucked away in antique bookstores
where words were cradled and loved.
I know now I’ll never live that practical life
more certain than ever.
And so, I enter the life of dreams
weaving words into the world I dream could be.
September in the Rehab
By Linda A. Cronin
I spent that September in rehab,
teaching my legs to walk,
while my sisters traveled to China
to search for the missing pieces in their lives,
the daughters they never knew or held.
As the leaves showered from the trees,
I learned to transfer,
struggled to turn in bed,
and they held their year old girls
for the first time,
listened to them cry,
terrified away from the orphanage,
the only place they knew.
Within hours the babies clung
to their new mothers while I
gradually became accustomed
to eating in a bib,
as much food raining on my lap
as reached my mouth,
my neck held prisoner in its brace.
Together, mothers and daughters
toured the country and filled out papers
before they could return home
while I fought to make my legs move,
wanting to stand tall and straight.
They returned home and adjusted,
settled into a routine
while I graduated to a walker,
and increased my strength.
September slipped into October,
and the wind grew sharper,
tugging the final leaves from the tree
to the giggles of the girls,
their days slowly gaining a routine
when I finally joined them,
still learning a new way of life.
Linda A. Cronin is a freelance writer and poet. Her first book of poems, Dream Bones, will be available from WordTech in June 2010 or from her Website www.lindacronin.net.
