Never is there quiet  
Never is there peace 
The noises in my house never seem to cease 
Screeching in the morning 
Crying in the night  
Chirping, contented sounds humming in the light 

For years and years  
My brain is busting  
Figuring if they are hurt or fussing 

Filter, filter 
Sift and scan 
Screening senses on command 

Counting, listening 
Keeping track 
Making sure I don't slack 

In one second  
In one breath 
Everything can shift to death. 
Esther Gay-Primel 05/15/2010 



When I wrote this poem, my sister Melodye laughed at me! How dare she! No really, unless your brain has been in full-blown parenting mode for decades, there is no way you could relate.    

Last Friday was a nightmare day for me. It began normally enough. A trip to the optometrist, followed by a short jaunt into a bargain store. Levi and Benjamin were my companions. Levi bought a half-sized football that his little brother held the whole way home.    

As we got out of the van, Levi said he would play football with Benjamin and I was to go ahead inside. So in I went, carrying a few groceries, quickly surveying the kitchen, I began to put items into the dishwasher. About 20 minutes later, Levi came upstairs. I asked, “where is Benjamin?” He said,” with you, he followed you in.” So we had a frantic search time. As we decided quickly he was not in the house, we went outside. One of Ray’s friends was pulling in. He asked us if we were missing something. When he opened the back door, out came Benjamin, holding his football.    

So, Melodye, you just go ahead and laugh. Meanwhile, I will sift and scan. Because sometimes, it does lead to death. And I would feel so responsible.   


4 comments on “Responsibility

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