See our Privacy Policy
Gratefulness
I found him on the porch that morning, sipping cold coffee, watching a crow dip down from the power line into the pile of black bags stuffed in the dumpster where he pecked and snagged a can tab, then carried it off, clamped in his beak like the key to a room only he knew about. My father turned to me then, taking in the reek of my smoke, traces of last night’s eyeliner I decided not to wipe off this time. Out late was all he said. And then smiled, rubbing the small of my back through the robe for a while, before heading inside, letting the storm door click shut behind him. Later, when I stepped into the kitchen, I saw it waiting there on the table—a glass of orange juice he had poured for me and left sweating in a patch of sunlight so bright I couldn’t touch it at first.
From Healing the Divide, (Green Writers Press, 2019). Posted by kind permission of the poet. Image by Anshu A./Unsplash
Two nights after he died, all night I heard the same one-line story on repeat:…
For times of grief and sorrow, we offer this curated collection of poems as a…
Somewhere someone needs help. Send love. It matters. If you can’t get there yourself, then…
This site is brought to you by A Network for Grateful Living, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit. All donations are fully tax deductible in the U.S.A.
© 2000 - 2022, A Network for Grateful Living
Website by Briteweb