It’s the silence, the/
not knowing, that hurts the worst;/
the “You don’t belong.”

Is she mad? Was there/
an emergency?With her/
silence, I won’t know

Women who may claim/
deep friendship often vanish/
when they have secrets.

It was cold
last New Year’s Day.
Someone was sick.
I thought maybe
she was dying.

It was not my place
to worry.
I had no familial ties,
no vested interest,
but I did.
And I do.

So I called, then,
that frigid January day,
caring,
a caregiver
relative,
who I cared for.

No answer.
Cold she was,
thinking I was prying.
She didn’t understand
that people can care;
that people call;
reach out;
try to find out
what is happening.

My roots,
Midwest deep,
tell me to probe.
To ask.
To be concerned,
as I want people
who should care
to care
about me.

But it’s not her
culture.
It’s not her
way.
And on that bitter
New Year’s Day
I learned.
She gave me
harsh
reality check
insight
into the way things are.
I
and my caring,
is lost on her.
I am not welcome,
and I lost her.

But out of bitter winter,
thaw comes.
Seasons bring change.

Ice melts,
and water comes
and goes,
and flows
under many
bridges.

She returned.
So you’d think
I’d have learned,
and not burned
bridges again.

Scenarios replay themselves,
so we may learn
from them.

Once again
sickness stalks,
and I, as a friend,
am worried.
I call.
No answer.
I ask again.
No response.

And though Spring
has warmed the sky,
the soil,
and grown seeds
and relationships,
the memory
of that cold
sub-zero
New Year’s Day
sprouts,
blows back into me
and my mind,
and stings
like that bitter wind.

Do I care?
Yes.
But those who don’t care
that I care
may again howl
as uncertainly,
fiercely,
and coldly
as last winter’s blizzard,
and water my eyes,
and burn my cheeks and ears,
and take away my breath.

So I turn my back
on the potential,
threatening,
miserable cold,
the chill memory,
those feelings that could stop
my heart.

Instead,
I lift my head,
face the warmth
of the red-rocked
sunset
and walk out
and on
alone.

Tonight’s moonset,
tomorrow’s sunrise
may bring news.
It may be good.
It may be tragic.

If it comes,
I will hear.
But I will not ask.
Here, in the land of
“This is The Place!”,
asking is not my place.

She left a gifted/
sucker behind, maybe to/
say that I am one.

I offer to help./
I offer alone time. Both/
aren’t the things she wants.

I just try to throw/
myself at her, words flying./
They get no result.