My Lamentation, My Rest | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: My Lamentation, My Rest | Previous Challenge Entry
By Wilma Schlegel
02/20/14
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Wearisome, wearisome.
Again, I make the bed; Again it will be messed up.
Why not just sleep on top?
Then I'll have five more minutes to
scrub the scum from the shower walls
and the bacteria from the bathroom bowl -
you know - the toilet - where all my skills
swirl their way down to oblivion.

Wearisome, wearisome.
I clean and scour milk film from the glasses,
coffee rings from the once new table.
I watch traces of sauce made from tomatoes,
grown to nourish but doomed to be stuck to the pot,
wash down the drain
leaving greasy orange stains behind in the sink
for me to wash.

Wearisome, just wearisome.
I put emollient richness on my hands,
my knuckles, rough and scaly;
my fingernails soft, peeling, broken.
I will not be a hand model
but so what if I were? Who would that help?
Who would care?
Who would remember?

Wearisome and more wearisome
The children I've raised
I have taught them what I know,
what I believe
I try to live in faith, but I fear
I'm not good at it, not good enough.
Because I think that they
reject what is important to me.

I cry out to the Lord, to my Lord.
Does He hear me?

My child comes to see me
and she tells me how she has
needed to cry to the Lord.
She has wanted to know His love
and has cried for Him to show Himself.
I think my heart will break
I don't think I can take it if
she, too, is weary.

And she says, "He answered me
and He said, 'my child you can see
my love surrounding you.
It is in the love of your own
little child and the love of
your husband; and for every day
of your life you have seen it
in the love of your mother.'"

And she thanks me and holds me.

I am not wearisome, I have found blessing.
My heart is warmed and full
My mouth breaks into a smile that
shines from my eyes to the world.
I lie down in sweet rest and
I sleep in soft billows
of fragrant cool warmth
in the bed made fresh by my hand.

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