Untitled Poem

This isn't based on any of my personal experiences, but some thoughts that were going around in my head recently based on various news stories both in Ireland and the USA.

It's untitled, as I think it works better without a title. The whole poem speaks for itself, I hope.

She considers getting the boat,

Then decides to book a Ryanair flight instead.

It’s not the seventies anymore, after all. Not in how she can choose to travel at least.

Though perhaps, she thinks, in the fact she has to travel at all.

No need to book a bag, carry on allowance will be fine –

Sure what will she need, phone charger, a change of clothes, probably some sanitary towels.

She isn’t really sure. Maybe a book.

To distract her from thinking about it.

Because she has thought of nothing else up to now, but the decision is made.

She kisses her littlest boy goodbye, and wonders as she delivers him into her own mother’s arms,

Whether she knows the real reason for the trip to England.

Wonders whether it is shame or something else

That keeps the wall of silence standing between them.

“I should be there with you,” her husband pleads.

She shakes her head. “You can’t afford to take the time off work,” she reminds him.

Half the reason for this decision being made in the first place.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassures him, then hates him briefly for needing her to do so. Even now,

She must be the strong one. She must hold the family together.

She leaves lunches for the older kids in the fridge before she goes. Does the online check in.

Tries to write a note but can’t get the words out, can’t put lies to paper as easily as she seemed to be able to tell them.

It is hard, she thinks as she waits in the airport, clutching her bag.

It is hard, but it has to be done.