Poetry Corner 1

Last Letters

Gone are those hours on the patio with pen and pastel stationery, printed with a border with faux embroidery and matching envelopes,

pens with ink drawn up from a bottle in navy or indigo, words flowing full of mixed feelings across miles to reach Diana in New York

from my apartment in Florida. Gone are the shoeboxes of refolded letters tied and saved with ribbon or strip of scrap fabric preserving detailed tales

of discos and dinner dates with men I never saw again, encounters delivered with suspense, revelation when you turned the page – He was a priest! –

chronicles of the crazy supervisor who insisted I sing with him, and a shrink who told me secrets of his other patients because I was special. Letters

with the day and date, names of impending hurricanes, lists of books read and fish caught, what I’d cooked for dinner for ten or gulped alone in front of the TV.

I saved letters written by the boy who would be my husband, his boyish scrawl from summer ‘65, when he lived in Utica with family, and I was at the summer

bungalow with Mother, where I wrote on my lap, on stone steps still warm from the day, letters filled with love and longing, something to hold onto.

By Joan Mazza. Joan has worked as a medical microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops focused on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six books, including Dreaming Your Real Self. Her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia. Her website is here.

Letter to Mother, During the Pandemic of 2020

Dear Mother, the story I most often heard of your early days was how your toddlerhood was toppled by the flu pandemic, how you lay in a vegetative state for weeks, had to start learning to walk and talk all over again. I miss you so much, but I’m glad you are not stuck in a nursing home, bored and feeling abandoned, playing game after game of solitaire, reading the front page of The Tribune over and over. Forbidden daily visits from family. Forbidden to hug or be hugged. No jigsaw puzzles, no games of Scrabble, no worship services or guitar concerts in the common room. No racing your electric wheelchair down the hall to find a friend (No nurse threatening to take away your driver’s license). No meals in the dining hall with other residents, your smiles and conversation a balm to someone’s loneliness, as you added three sugar packets to your mashed potatoes. How often in your last years nursing assistants came to see you after someone yelled at them, knowing you would offer a hug and tell them you loved them. What would you think about this time when touching others is forbidden, no kindly tap on the shoulder, no kiss on the cheek? Not even a squeezed hand. I’m sure you would be like a toddler, unable to resist the temptation to reach out your arms.

By Wilda Morris. Wilda is a Workshop Chair for Poets and Patrons of Chicago, and past President of the Illinois State Poetry Society, she has published poems in numerous anthologies, webzines, and print publications. She is happiest when playing with her grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Her poetry blog at wildamorris.blogspot.com features a monthly poetry contest.