a poem

If I knew a way to bring my parents joy,

I would not hesitate.

 

When my mother tells me

she wants me to be happy,

after all these years,

I finally believe it.

--And it hurts.

I was blind,

--not selfish,

but stupid.

My father did so many little things,

out of sincere kindness,

like sending me postcards of American Indians.

--A thousand little things that I did not understand.--

You might call it egoism,

but that would be unfair to my younger self:

The mind is burdened and cluttered,

by a thousand smaller or larger obstacles:

You can't see past them,

and you can't see around them.

Until one day they disappear,

and the sweet sadness starts.

Pardubice

2 September 2013