always the planner, never the planned for
I sit and blow up balloons,
Blue ones littered with tiny stars and cresecent moons.
I tie them neatly along a spool of ribbon
31 years old, a mum of 3, happily married, private carer.
She has endless ambition, described as a ‘true a soul of gold’,
Wakes up every morning and is always told,
How Loved she is from her army of lovers,
This party was their idea,
the kids that is, stemming from such thought sincere.
So i volunteered to make the playlist,
Songs from when she danced at 19,
I made sure there was juice and plastic cups,
And napkins for when the cake showed up.
The kids were buzzing, proud and sweet,
small fingers clutching handmade cards,
faces full of smiles lined with crooked teeth.
“Mum You’re magic! The best there is!”
But something inside felt amiss.
But I gripped the edges of my own small space.
Smiling at others enough to keep my place.
You see I’d been alone at home before I came,
And yesterday’s morning had been the same.
The last year, in fact, had worn the same old coat,
Pockets full of silent nights,
empty rooms and dim lights,
with nothing and no one to keep me afloat.
‘’Bring a plus one!’’ I had written on each invite,
Curly script I’d scrawled with delight.
And I had chuckled then, a small private joke
For I knew I, of course, would come alone.
So there I sat, the clock hit four
The guest that no one’s waiting for.
The music hums, the glasses clink,
But I feel like a shadow on the brink.
I dream of days they’ll plan for me,
A time to laugh, or cry or to simply be.
But in my heart, the fear is real
That only death will seal that deal.
Because I’ll always be the planner, never the planned for,
Standing on the edges, watching from the floor.
