Yvette Green
What Remains
When traffic signs read stay home
as states exercise their sovereignty,
what remains—
hazy green drenches Maryland
visitors ignore mandates and swarm
the tidal basin to breathe in cherry blossoms.
When my aunt is on a ventilator in ICU,
what remains—
the tilt of the earth
spring equinox
white buds on branches
that request an opening to usher in rebirth.
When my uncle can’t visit her
what remains—
lyrics and lies
loss and hope
the abstract
the concrete.
When I hear him choke back tears,
when people tell him to stay strong,
what remains—
a gravelly voice aware that saying “stay strong”
is easy and foolish;
a voice that knows;
a heart that appeals to God.
What remains,
when nothing is the same
when worlds are rocked,
shaken by a microscopic riptide;
when we burrow into fear and loneliness;
what remains—
trite reminders
this, too, shall pass;
time, this moment, life
will always pass.
—Submitted on 03/25/2020
Yvette Green‘s essay “Parting Ways” appears in Seasons of Our Lives: Winter (Knowledge Access Books, 2014), edited by by Nashville, she lived in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC, and is the mother of two sons, 11 and 16. Green holds an MA in English from University of Maryland.
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