Purpose
by Carl Santoro
She awoke, but kept her eyes closed.
Lying in bed, she felt, she guessed,
that it must be around 3 a.m.ish.
She snuck a quick glance at the
clock radio.
Yes.
Exactly 3:00 a.m.
She unclenched her two tight fists
and slowly, gently, splayed her
fingers out on the sheets.
She was afraid.
Afraid today, like every day.
Afraid of the word "purpose."
She imagined herself getting up
to make coffee.
She fooled herself into thinking
she smelled it.
A little on the strong side she thought.
"Purpose."
Purpose - go away!
What do you want?
I gave you two daughters.
I gave you four grandchildren.
I'm done.
What do you want?
She could feel her hands
forming tight fists again.
I'm old now. You took my husband.
I've graduated. Haunt the young. Leave me
to be care free.
Her eyes still closed, she made another guess.
It could be 4 a.m.ish.
Her cat licked her fist.
She slowly, gently splayed her fingers
out on the sheets.
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Author's Note
"We need a framework of ideals that give us a conscious sense of purpose.
To live without purpose is to live in a peculiar kind of hell."
"We must maintain an awareness of the major human values embedded in our collective consciousness throughout our history: HONESTY, RESPONSIBILITY, DECENCY."
"For the secret of man's being is not only to live, but to have something to live for."
Dostoevsky
Other stories by Carl Santoro
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We have to trust our domestic rituals sometimes lacking all else.
Rinse, lather, repeat.*
She should start writing a novel. Allows one to fool oneself that one is purposeful. *
"Purpose."
Purpose - go away!
What do you want?
I gave you two daughters.
I gave you four grandchildren.
I'm done.
Very strong.
Good poem, Carl.
*