ILLUMINATED  PLACES    

by Martha Ellen


The night she died 
I had a dream.
I saw her walking 
in a pleasant landscape
on an uphill footpath
toward an illuminated place.
Her back was to me.
She turned and saw me 
watching her leave 
for the last time.

Thrilled to see me,
she smiled and
waved with the familiar 
excited anticipation 
I had seen so many times 
before when I arrived
at her sheltered home
and we would go for coffee.
There were days I thought
this a chore, a boring task
that subtracted
from my important life.
But, in that moment, 
in her joyful smile, clarity.
She knew I feared 
to carry on without her.
“You will be OK. 
I will wait here for you.”

Everyone had believed
I was the stronger sister.


* * * * *

Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Born and reared in Chicago. Retired social worker. History of social justice activism. Old hippie. MFA. Poems and prose published in various journals and online forums including North Coast Squid, RAIN, Words Have Wings and others. She writes to process her wild life.