Poems From The Kitchen Table

My mother found Madeline crying in the bathroom.
It takes a lot of pain to create a drunk.

Someone had asked her about her deceased husband.
How did he die?
Heart attack? Aneurysm? Stroke?

She wasn’t ready.

She spoke English.
My mother, Spanish.
Not understanding the words,
But understanding everything—
My mother hugged her.

She cried so raw,
So fiercely,
That even the strangers nearby
Found their eyes suddenly wet.

Grief poured from her
Like a river through mountain passes.
Her memories—
Painful books with horrible, unending chapters.

You wait . . . and wait . . . and wait . . . until . . .

There is a light.
Two small, round, yellowish lights—
Like flashlights of hope
At the end of a dark tunnel.

They reflect off metal rails,
And suddenly
Fear, anxiety, depression—
They twist together
Into a long, thundering string of metal cars
Rushing straight toward you.

How does someone sink so far?

It was no secret what happened.
Even now,
His memory presses on everyone like a weight.

It became impossible to speak of his affliction—
No amount of wishing
Would ever bring him back.

At the wedding,
Madeline cried
As if her brain were being shredded from within.

No one ever asked again,
“What happened to your husband?”

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I wrote this poem in response to something that happened at my own wedding—an unexpected moment with one of my guests that stayed with me long after. Sometimes, the quietest moments leave the deepest marks.

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