—
Two Smiths they were, and Mrs. both:
…A matriarch was one;
The other was the welcomed lass
…Who wed the loving son.
The latter made him happy and
…The two were closely knit.
The matriarch walked easily with
…The new shoe that still fit.
The younger Mrs. Smith gave birth
…And bore a son, an heir
That now would carry on the name
…Both common and so rare.
All – father, son, and newborn male
…Were each one of a kind,
Like lonely roads that lead one way
…Into an end that’s blind.
The father’s father passed away;
…The matriarch alone
Was left to head the family,
…Be hostess, and its tone.
And so, for all the holidays,
…And some days in between,
The little family met as one –
…A small tree that was green.
The Third grew up and left the nest,
…But flew oft to return
Eventually with his own mate,
…A Mrs. Smith in turn.
Then, inexplicably to all,
…The middle Mrs. Smith
Had an affair, exploding trust
…In all her kin and kith.
But junior Mr. Smith, with love,
…Took back his wayward mate
Who sorrowed much o’er what she’d done
…To bring this fallen state.
And taped together with resolve,
…Repentance, and regret,
The pair and married son and wife
…Were a close unit yet.
But Christmases were not the same.
…Though bells were bright and bold.
And frozen rain ne’er ruined the roads –
…The matriarch was cold.
No phone calls stitched the time between;
…No post cards in the mail,
No message relayed through the son
…To the abandoned jail.
Next Christmas came, and she stayed home,
…Forgiven and yet not.
The Third, next Christmas, and his wife,
…Joined in her lonely lot.
Soon Junior, too, would travel less
…Since he would be alone.
His link then to the matriarch –
…A single thread, a phone.
And thus the family fell apart
…And could not ever mend,
The fragile fabric torn to shreds
…By Mrs. Smith who sinned.
————————————————
photo by Billy Frank Alexander at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dRXURt/Torn+4
————————————————-
© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
The Bard on the Hill 