Monday Mornings With The Mother Of The Rainbow

 "I despise this empty nest,"

I think so on my bed, still in that white skirt.

My pillow case stained with tears.

Happy, sad, even angry perhaps. I don't remember. I never do. 

I should get to work and yet I sit here, wallowing in my self pity.

Perhaps I find comfort in this mysterious misery. 

I do not have anything. I pretend to have everything.

I am the mother of colours, the rainbow was born from my womb and yet Red never calls. Nor does Green. One is too busy with her rage and the other is too focused on her envy. 

 My birds have all flown away. And it's so quiet. Too quiet. But perhaps that's how it was meant to be. 

It really is quiet. 

Peaceful, if you think about it.

I look for God everywhere, I haven't written anything in the last two months, I sleep too much or not enough.

And maybe, maybe that's what makes me ethereal.

I walk like a swan even when my bones have crumbled into dust and my heart has been ripped out of my chest.  

    Now there sit two doves on my window pane. They're beautiful. Untouched and lovely and I miss my children and my childhood, my innocence and my purity. 

The house is so beautiful when it's quiet.

Monday mornings feel angelic and it snowing outside so I needn't go to work today.

Perhaps I will write.

A love letter to the angels above, to God, to me. 

My birds have all flown away.

But that means so can I.

Perhaps I love this empty nest.