In the Middle of the Night

I had nightmares for years after my mother died.  I am older, much older now, and of a certain age. I am of that supposed age when a woman has the ability to take death as a matter of fact, in the middle of the night, in the river of my dreams.

In the aftermath, there are the folks in a rush to get over the hurdle of not knowing what to say to me, and they throw out this pat phrase: I know you are glad he is out of pain.  Yes, of course I am, I am, I am.  And that makes me mad, then sad, then madder than hell.  Anger, here it comes, in the middle of an encounter with anyone who doesn't know what to say, in the middle of the bridge of a regular day.

Anger, here it comes, in the middle of the night, waking up shaken up, sweating from a nightmare.  I am old enough to recognize this classic stage of grief and old enough to look that anger in the eye and stop it before I spit in someone's eye, when it's day. But anger waits behind the curtains and lashes out inside me in the middle of the night, in the river of my dreams.