Sleepwalking

What the $%&* Is Going On Here?

The following is a response to a writing prompt from another writers' blog.  The challenge was to write a response to "What the $%&* is Going On Here?" 

What would happen if one day

you woke up

and found yourself in a traffic jam? 

You look at the 16-year-old sitting next to you,

earbuds and loud music

blocking out conversation or relation,

but the last time you checked he was six,

with a gap toothed grin and a hug for every minute

and your name was Mommy, not an irritated What.

You catch the crow’s feet in the rear view mirror,

but can’t recall those deep lines settling

around eyes burned out in defeat. 

What would you think if one afternoon

you came home and saw your father,

once tall and straight-backed

weave his way across the grass, bent low,

unsteady in spite of the twisted wooden cane

with the rubber foot? 

You instinctively take his hand,

but still feel his strong arms, lift you effortlessly

over his shoulder, voice crying out in joy

 at the potato sack he found on the lawn.

What would you believe if the door opened

and your husband met you,

eyes indifferent except for frustration

at the lateness of dinner? 

You can only see a young man with

long sideburns in a rented tux

standing next to you,

giggling through promises you both

thought you meant.

What would you feel as you passed

around the dinner rolls and glazed carrots

and roast chicken, but didn’t know

how you’d gotten to this meal,

this table,

this life?

 

What would you do if you realized

that you’d been asleep. 

Asleep for a lifetime.

You missed it.

You missed it all.

Life grew up around you,

but you failed to open your eyes. 

What would you say?