You made space for me

that postage stamp square

under the table and surrounded:

chairs, junk, dust bunnies,

the weight of your burdens.

I never stopped shoveling

through the detritus

that collection of your worst days ever.

A fruitless hope to find your hand reaching for mine at the other end

a glimpse maybe, in my direction

in passing

at your whim

the stuff of years:

anger, sadness, and confusion.

And me with my own burdens on my back,

yet glad for your dribs and drabs.

Happy, even,

for the impossibly tipped scale.

Then I saw my own face in the mirror,

and not yours,

leapt from that precarious height,

and away

from you.

Colleen Sohn

…

 p.s. Oh me, oh my, this is not about the dear hubster!