The Commonplace

Carol Casey

source: Bustle

The Commonplace

I sit alone with a warm tea,
pen in hand. This Covid solitude
is barely hardship until  

time brings a tide of loneliness
sweeping over and I think of
alternative universes, ones  

where you would have woken
me up, said, Grandma, now can
we bake the cake? And your

mother, father and little brother
would have tumbled down the
rabbit hole to join the fun along

with uncles, aunts, cousins all
cozy inside on this rainy day,
catching up on news, discussing  

the upcoming wedding with no
if this or if that, complacent
in our togetherness and the petty,  

niggling differences that filigree
our interactions. I would see
your new-found seven-year-old 

dignity at play, face brown
with chocolate, adoring little brother
and cousin in your wake, you asking 

questions, listening skeptically to
answers, offering each grown-up
the chance to play. And in this 

other time and place we would
not even know we were safe, or what
it means to have the commonplace.

Then and Now

My grandmother was bitten by a snake
more than a hundred years ago. Her foot turned black.
The village shaman offered small hope,
honeybees and chants as balm. 

A world on knife-edge, cutting holes
in the frilly crinoline of etiquette soiled and bedraggled,
veneer worn thin with care and storm;
social fabric torn.

My grandmother survived. They saw
that her life force was strong enough for the Spanish Flu.
She nursed the sick
until the storm becalmed.   

In this leopard-spot terrain of holes
and rough, furry patches the beast erupts in unexpected
places, familiarity turns strange,
bereft, forlorn. 

Her older sister died of it
and came to her in a dream to tell her she was happy.
My grandmother passed
the message on. 

This thing, this microbe, not enough
to cause terror, just a niggling erosion, a constant vague sense
of roulette out of control,
a disconnection, care worn. 

Her family took comfort where
they could, even this small glimmer softened pain.
When all is dark, a little light can help
us wait more patiently for dawn. 

I never used to give this tale much thought.
It was just another
pretty story grandma told.

Snowflake

The road has lost itself
white-washed, white
on a white canvas.
My wipers toil on
as gust of wind lend vertigo. 

Though blind, there is no stopping,
no safe going forward.
I invoke memory, instinct, grace
decipher brief flashes of track
to clutch as compass. 

An errant snowflake
flies in on the fan
lands on my cheek with a tiny thrill
that snaps all here and now
into the car.

I remember my breath.

Carol Casey lives in Blyth, Ontario, Canada. A retired nurse, she writes lots of poetry and a bit of copy to pay the bills. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in a number of periodicals and anthologies. @ccasey_carol