Slipping

I'm slipping back down again into that all too familiar spot
to the blank that surrounds and swaddles me tightly
making it difficult
to breathe.

Down the smooth slick slope well-worn from frequent trips
over the past twelve years despite the gardens
I've planted and cultivated wishing
to impede erosion and prevent
the slide.

I'm never sure when it will happen or why.

Maybe it's the glint of morning stretching
across my room softly touching
my pillow as I wake

or the slight scent of summer dancing
among my backyard blooms
that stirs a memory.

Perhaps it's the sound of children splashing
merrily in the fountain
beneath her tree

or the sweet joy of my son announcing
that his firstborn will be
a baby girl.

For a while I slip away not bothering to voice farewell
although no one notices or seems to care.
They can't go with me but are waiting

untroubled and unknowing

when I return.

I've accepted that this will always be.
The slope will never change
its tilt or downward
spiral.

Death leaves a hole that swallows not becoming quenched
or satisfied no matter how much happiness follows
how much joy fills up the present.
It holds a whirl of memories
and hopes that will
never be.

Melanie