by Neal Bledsoe

There are oceans behind her eyes

Of pain, sacrifice and love,

And you underestimate this woman

At your peril. She has lived

Whole lifetimes that would kill you.

Carrying not just her pain,

But yours, your father’s,

your family’s,

And somehow, throughout all of this,

She has remained kind and generous.

Yet, this is not why you admire her.

Late in her life, after you

Had moved out,

and everyone was safe,

After carrying these

heavy stones of grief

For everyone else,

she hopped in a car

And headed up the lonely highway

To Alaska with a man

she barely knew,

Calling the office from

somewhere in BC,

Saying she wouldn’t be

coming in that day,

Or any other for the next six weeks—

Maybe—giving herself

a season of love.

You like to think of her there still:

Absolutely bursting with joy,

As the snow-capped

silent sentinel mountains

And the moss-draped

emerald rainforests

Of the north, full of

wolves and ravens,

Unfolded before her like a flower.

Relentlessly, she pursued

some mythic quest within

And moved like an orca whale

when it hunts,

The way their black dorsal fins

knife the slate sea,

She cut through the wilderness

in pursuit

Of her heart that lay untamed

Somewhere up there in the wild.

In the end, you don’t admire her

For what she’s done for you,

But what she’s done for herself,

And how it calls you to learn from

The oceans behind her eyes.

When you think of her there,

Some part of you hears

the same lupine call,

Like a lonely howl across

the deep valleys of night,

The hair on your neck

standing at attention,

And every part of you is

yearning to run free.

Neal Bledsoe is an actor, journalist and poet who shares his love for the written word via monologues, poetry readings, and thought-provoking prose.