Being a Stepmom

In the 11th year of the third millennium, I stand at the window and gaze in.

I had been invited to join the architectural committee.

To participate in rebuilding.

My heart is enraptured.

Seven Thanksgivings pass.

I stand on tippy-toes and peer over the cobbled balustrade.

The stones of the wall are from the abandoned quarry.

I call out.

Nobody hears.

My heart is guarded.  

A new year rings in.

Resolutions unrequited.

I find footholds in the wall and attempt to summit.

The stones are slippery; slithering creatures lurk. 

My heart is bruised.

Mother’s Day.

The door is barricaded, weeds grow and dust obscures.

A DO NOT DISTURB sign dangles.

Guests have not been welcomed inside in a while.

My heart persists.