From my mourning deck, each day at dusk
I watched her emerge
from a dark hollow in the ancient oak.
She journeyed across the yard,
climbed a sturdy elm,
descended again and journeyed toward the park.
Odd journey, I thought,
why not go straight to the park?
One evening she added a new facet
to her nightly journey.
With a mass in her mouth
she emerged from the oak,
climbed the elm,
and returned to the oak.
As she repeated the journey twice more
I realized the mass in her mouth must be a kit.
Gently she was relocating each little one,
from birthing room in the oak
to nursery in the elm.
Then the dark cavity in the oak was empty –
empty like the cavity
in my heart that my mother used to fill.
I miss those nightly distractions,
time away from my mourning,
now that the kits live elsewhere.
Yet visions of mothers and infants and love
begin to stir
in the hollow
where grief has been dwelling.
Raccoon kits emerge from dark chasms
to begin new journeys of their own.
With time new loves will emerge
from this chasm in my heart
to light upon new journeys
from where my mother’s love gave birth.
Day Eighteen prompt: Write about grief in concrete words.