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Topic: Empty Nester/Retirement (from work)( 09/10/09)
My Childish Pity-Fest
By Rachel Burkum
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She's got time to bake her pies,
That everyone adores.
She's the one who drives on by,
Her nose stuck in the air.
She can turn an old gent's head,
I know it isn't fair.
Me, I'm just a working wife,
With calluses to prove,
My hands need lotion every night,
To soften and to soothe.
My bones they ache and moan and groan,
But I still work, you see.
We need the money every month,
To pay our rental fee.
She's got hours to spend in bed,
Beauty sleep, says she.
She wakes if her dear daughter calls,
At eight or nine fifteen.
It doesn't matter what she says,
They all will lend an ear,
To gossip going 'round and 'round,
That everyone should hear.
Me, I'm just a toiling mom,
Too busy for that fluff.
I sweep and sew and cook the meals,
Without that other stuff.
She retired before her time,
Dear Henry, rest his soul,
Left her quite a fortune there,
So she would ne'er be cold.
I glare across the cobble path,
To her front porch and muse,
She's got that big house of hers,
To roam, enjoy and use.
Me, I have a little home,
With hardly space to spare,
For when my kids come home at night,
And we all have to share.
What would life for me be like,
If I could sit and bask,
In the sunshine morn' to night,
Of God, I think I'll ask.
Why can't I have riches, too,
My children grown and gone?
Why can't I be finished here,
And have peace to rest upon?
Jealousy creeps in my heart,
Some naughty thoughts invade.
I finally tiptoe 'cross the lane,
And hide beneath the shade.
Creeping closer 'neath the sill,
I stop and press and ear,
To listen and to find out if,
She’s really that sincere.
To my chagrin and my dismay,
It's not her steps I hear.
It's not her flitting all about,
Enjoying no career.
Instead I hear the sobbing cries.
To God, she's calling out.
She's begging for more purpose here,
She thinks she’s been left out.
Her heart pours out the heavy tears,
That she's been holding in.
She's asking God to grant her wish,
To fill the void within.
No job has dealt out emptiness,
Instead of joyous glee.
The lack of children in the house,
Left scars, quite painfully.
And as I sink down to the ground,
My heart leaps in my chest,
Foolish me, oh, God, forgive,
My childish pity-fest.
He gave me all these things to do,
These jobs to keep my hands,
Busy working dawn 'til dusk,
So I could fill His plans.
My children all bring happiness,
To my aching heart.
How could I want them to be,
Gone, and us apart?
And as I ponder all these things,
I realize it's true.
She's been wanting all along,
Things I've complained to you.
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