The Silver Standard

The Kaleidoscope and the Silver Medal that Wasn't Gold

Life moves in an ebb and flow, a ribbon unfurling in a restless wind. My ribbons are a kaleidoscope spinning. Some sparkle with reflected light. Others draw the world in, holding it deep within the gush and drift of my own emotions. Today, with the sky gone gray and the freezing point pressing against the glass, I don’t want to eat the sun or serve stars on a plate of diamonds to the Man in the Moon. Today, I only want the stillness of a forest-green blanket.

I put the breakfast tray on my husband’s lap this morning. It was a line I swore I wouldn’t cross again — the journey from the bed to the easy chair was all I was asking. But today, the distance was too great. Not because of a new sickness, but because of a game. He is tethered to a laptop, a headset uncharged, watching the pursuit of Gold while the world outside remains hushed.

Yesterday, the Canadian Women’s Team won Silver, yet we carry it like a collective shame. No banners. No headlines. Just the bitter weight of what should have been. We stay stuck in the blame and the regret, obsessed with the gap where the Gold should be.

I find myself doing the same with this life of caregiving. I tally a litany of “not good enoughs”— the forgotten tasks, the missed marks, the shortcuts taken. I focus on the lack instead of the win.

The truth is, I served my husband breakfast in bed today. How romantic. How silver. How enough.

Poem 170 of a year of writing a love poem a day to myself.

The Green Stillness
by Louise Gallagher

Piled on the floor 
a kaleidoscope of ribbons
their frayed edges 
	a forgotten prescription, 
the white square 
	a napkin left on the counter, 
the "silver" medal
	a meal that was only soup.

The tally grows
My back bows
I am tired 
too many "should-have-been" Golds
mocking
my efforts to be
the noble caregiver.

I gather them up, 
these small silvers 
	my "not good enoughs" 
the open window calls
the seagulls caw
the shoreline beckons.
I walk to the window.

Out there, in the valley 
on the other side
of the moon
the Man in the Moon is waiting. 

He doesn't need a plate of diamonds, 
just the coffee, steam rising like a prayer. 

I open my hands 
in a flutter of colourful wins
the litany of my sins
unfurl 
into the frost-tipped air.

I reach across the sill
the forest green blanket 
	open arms reaching
the air
	thick and heavy 
laden
    the scent of pine 
    and silence.

I wrap it all tight
around my shoulders, 
tucking the edges under my chin 
    the world feels small again.

The gray sky can count its medals. 
The wind can wave the ribbons. 
Inside the green 
I am not a caregiver 
or a failure. 

I am just a woman, 
being still, 
while the sun waits 
to be eaten another day.