Poetry by Sarah Smith

     Dane CC



Through the Looking Glass

I’ve seen this before. Coming home from middle school to a quiet house. If I hadn’t seen the car in the driveway, I would have assumed the house to be empty. My sister had passed away mere months prior. After nearly a decade of fighting for my sister’s life, my mom was overwhelmed by depression and grief. 

I’ve seen this before. A young adult in college, it was late and my brother was asleep. My mom and I tried to shield him as much as possible, to spare him the image of seeing dad on the couch, drunk, repeating “I’m sorry,” “I’m sorry,” “I’m sorry,” over and over again in his state. 

I’ve seen this before. This time closer to 30 years than 20, as I visited my brother on the psychiatric unit. Sitting across from him in the common space, I saw him going through exactly what I had gone through when I was hospitalized. I would never wish my mental illness upon anyone, let alone my own brother.

I’ve seen this before. Last week, flooded with flashbacks of an abusive situation before my time, my husband, taking to the bed to rest: an escape from the exhaustion of work and the ghosts of tragic memories. The apartment was quiet as our cats were napping alongside him. While they were asleep and I was awake, I didn’t feel alone.





Broken Bird

A little over a decade ago, when I was in high school, 
I sculpted a bird out of clay. 

Carving lines into the material, a bird came to life. 
I painted the sculpture purple and gave it to my mom as a gift. 

Shortly after, I was admitted to the hospital for bipolar mania, 
and during that time, the small bird’s right wing broke off. 

My mom kept the broken bird on the kitchen windowsill: 
she would think of me every time she saw it. 

Several weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital, 
though still in recovery. 

This bird remained broken for a couple of years,
until she approached me in July of 2016.

My mom asked if I had anything that could repair the broken bird,
because she was ready for it to be fixed.





Lunch

I had shown Mom a painting of my own making the day prior. A dreamlike creature with an old-timey nurse’s hat, red lipstick, and pointed shoes, offering solace to an 11-year-old girl sitting in the corner of a white room, knees held closely to her chest. 

I don’t want you to be a caregiver, both confession and advice coming from across the table in this old-fashioned diner with timeless classics lining the walls.

To take care of and to care for are completely different; relationships are give and take. A literal and figurative caregiver staring back at me, having spent most of her life taking care of her kin. 

A great responsibility, tending to the physically sick, the mentally ill, and the addicted. Deep down, we all know this takes a toll on the spirit, the mind, and the heart with time. 

The innate need to take care of others, this is not your job. You have to surrender the role in order to allow others to care for you. Having risen to every crisis presented to this family, I took Mom’s hand, in unspoken agreement.





Romantics

Sitting on the couch in a home that was once mine until I moved out a mere seven months prior. 

The sun was shining atop fresh fallen March snow. How are you? Worse, better. Stable weather would certainly help. 

Imperfect life, imperfect love, yet, I know this is as perfect as it will ever get:

Unconditional. Holding my hand as I walk through fire in my mind. Free of judgment, especially when human steps are taken backwards. Easy to do when you’re alive, especially in recovery. The kind of love that helps. 

Long-lasting loyalty, withstanding the test of time, and surviving the trials of the human condition. A classic love. The love of grandparents. 





​​Sarah Smith is a published poet, writer, artist, and certified creative arts therapist from Cleveland, Ohio, USA. Smith manages a WordPress blog entitled Chronicles of a Disillusioned Optimist: Smith also has poetry anthologies available for sale on Amazon.