Meditation Moment

I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept

For three years, telling all she does not say

Of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept,

She writes. My god, father, each Christmas Day

With your blood, will I drink down your glass

of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years

Goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.

Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.

Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,

Bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.

Anne Secton, “All My Pretty Ones”

Today, give yourself room to breathe; to allow your pain to pack its bags and move on.