poem by Jennifer Elliott
TWELVE SEPTEMBERS
Quiet. I love these soft, quiet moments.
So peaceful and calm.
Just you and I.
But there is an ache growing inside me.
This ache rising with each new silvered fleck on your face.
It is only now that I understand this ache.
From the beginning, I knew it would be a blessing to have twelve years with you.
If I had only realized then.
If I could have comprehended that we may only have twelve Septembers.
Just twelve Septembers.
To only feel the raging fire of summer slowly fade to the soft light of autumn twelve times.
Twelve concerts of the first cascading jewel-toned leaves.
Twelve autumns.
Twelve winters, springs and summers.
It takes my breath. It is much too fast.
I sink in the desperation to remember our first September.
What happened to us in our third?
Now, we share our eleventh.
From your eyes, I know it to be our last.
But it is truly not our end.
In one year’s time I will stand and witness each moment.
I will honor you with each cherished instant.
I will feel you in the first cool breeze.
In the brilliance of an amethyst sunrise.
As each pile of leaves is scattered by the wind just like you had charged through them yourself.
To experience you without your spirit shackled to the physical world.
Whispering to me to treasure what is now.
We are fortunate to know there may only be twelve Septembers.
A reminder to be grateful of everything precious in our lives.
Love deeply and love well.
The ache that builds is a monument to the depth of our love.
And here we are. Now.
Lay your head across my lap for as long as you will.
In this quiet.
In this calm and peaceful quiet.
Quiet. I love these soft, quiet moments.
So peaceful and calm.
Just you and I.
But there is an ache growing inside me.
This ache rising with each new silvered fleck on your face.
It is only now that I understand this ache.
From the beginning, I knew it would be a blessing to have twelve years with you.
If I had only realized then.
If I could have comprehended that we may only have twelve Septembers.
Just twelve Septembers.
To only feel the raging fire of summer slowly fade to the soft light of autumn twelve times.
Twelve concerts of the first cascading jewel-toned leaves.
Twelve autumns.
Twelve winters, springs and summers.
It takes my breath. It is much too fast.
I sink in the desperation to remember our first September.
What happened to us in our third?
Now, we share our eleventh.
From your eyes, I know it to be our last.
But it is truly not our end.
In one year’s time I will stand and witness each moment.
I will honor you with each cherished instant.
I will feel you in the first cool breeze.
In the brilliance of an amethyst sunrise.
As each pile of leaves is scattered by the wind just like you had charged through them yourself.
To experience you without your spirit shackled to the physical world.
Whispering to me to treasure what is now.
We are fortunate to know there may only be twelve Septembers.
A reminder to be grateful of everything precious in our lives.
Love deeply and love well.
The ache that builds is a monument to the depth of our love.
And here we are. Now.
Lay your head across my lap for as long as you will.
In this quiet.
In this calm and peaceful quiet.