For We Write Poems poetry prompt: Write Here, Now
Passing The Box
Hard white plastic,
oblong, with flip-up
lids for each day
of the week…
just in case feeble hands
should fumble and drop,
won’t spill and get all mixed
Seven of them fixed. Marked
with large print letters because
old people lose ability to clearly
see what is right there in front
of them. Beginning with S
and ending with another.
Seven days, seven letters, each
with raised brail dots in bottom
right corner for feeling way
when sight is lost completely.
Hate the thing.
Used to belong to her,
she had several of them,
each a different muted color,
growing in size as years passed
one after another. Didn’t need it
last year, all of her time was done
passing. Somehow box got passed
on and now resides here on far
left corner of desktop. Didn’t need,
or want it last year, just one half
tablet every day. Now five nestle
in depths of each tightly lidded
compartment, needing to be
swallowed at different times
each day, another reminder
of time passing.
This old woman wants
to forget. Put time in that
hard plastic box, snap all those
lids tightly in place, retain
some element of grace, while
time is still left for passing.
Elizabeth Crawford 6/22/11
Process Notes: Wasn’t going to do this today. Busy schedule and just couldn’t settle on one thing to write about. But, went and read Irene’s poem and immediately knew what I could write about. Really do hate the thing, but it reminds me of my mother, at least twice daily. Swore I’d never use it, but time passes, things change, we change with them. Thanks for the inspiration, Irene.