6801. A promise she must keep

 

Write a poem. An adult Chinese daughter in her late 40s, big shouldered, short black hair, blue uniform dress with logo of aircraft, employed as a marketing person, by the aircraft manufacturer is sad as she has a big commitment to pay $8000 monthly to the nursing home to take care of Abigail, her 70-year-old aunt, silver haired and has dementia. She had promised her daddy on his death bed that she would take good care of Aunt Abigail. But the market has tanked owing to the Iran war. She has less much sales and less income. She has to dig into her savings to pay for her Aunt''s nursing home fees. Her savings are dwindling year by year as her earnings are less. Less private jets are sold. She is in a difficult situation trying to HONOUR HER COMMITMENTS.

Broad shoulders square against the glass,
Where metal wings reflect the grey,
A blue dress pressed, a logo clean—
An aircraft poised to fly away.
Her short black hair is neatly kept,
A marketing professional’s grace,
But shadows pool beneath her eyes,
Etched deep across a weary face.

The skies are quiet, choked by war,
The distant conflict stalls the fleet;
The private jets sit unsold now,
And silent is the corporate street.
Her income shrinks, the market faints,
The charts she draws all tumble down,
Yet every month a mountain looms,
Deep in the heart of this harsh town.

Eight thousand dollars, strict and cold,
To keep the sanctuary whole,
Where silver-haired Abigail rests,
As winter steals her fragile soul.
The dementia thief takes more each day,
Erasing paths that once were clear,
Leaving a gentle, fading aunt
Who needs the safety bought so dear.

She sees her father’s dying eyes,
She hears his breath, so faint and low:
"Take care of Abigail for me,"
A vow he took before he'd go.
A Chinese daughter’s sacred bond,
Filial piety, deep and old,
A promise written in her blood,
More precious than the missing gold.

So year by year the savings drop,
She digs into the dwindling store,
Watching the numbers melt away,
Unsure of what is left in store.
Her shoulders bear the crushing weight
Of market storms and empty skies,
A quiet war fought every day
Where love refuses compromise.

She straightens up her uniform,
And looks out past the hangar door.
Though savings fade and fortunes wane,
Her word remains forever sure.
A commitment kept against the tide,
A loyalty that will not break,
She stands unbowed, a steadfast heart,
For a dead father’s sacred sake.

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Poem without personalisation

 

 

A PROMISE SHE MUST KEEP 
 
The fabric of her corporate dress is stiff, 
The corporate logo gleaming on her chest— 
A silver jet embroidered on the blue, 
A mocking sign of heights she cannot reach. 
Her broad shoulders, built for carrying weight, 
Are heavy now beneath the quiet strain 
Of words she whispered to a dying man. 
Her father’s hand was cold, his breath was short, 
"Take care of Aunt Abigail," he begged his child. 
She gave her word, a sacred, solemn vow, 
A promise bound in blood and family tie. 

Now Auntie sits within a sterile room, 
At seventy, her hair a crown of white, 
Her mind a fading map of blurred-out roads. 
Dementia took the woman that she knew, 
But left the bills that arrive like clockwork tides. 
Eight thousand dollars every single month 
To keep her safe, to keep her warm and fed. 

But out at sea, the fires of the Middle East burn, 
The war has choked the markets of the world. 
The sky is empty of the buyers now; 
The private jets she sells sit on the tarmac, 
Their polished wings reflecting quiet rooms. 
The commissions dwindle, bonuses dry up, 
As billionaires lock up their vaults in fear. 

Each month she dips into the shrinking pool, 
The savings gathered through her youth and prime. 
Year after year, the numbers tumble down, 
A slow hemorrhage of her secure future. 
She stands before the mirror, late forty-four, 
Her short black hair untouched by silver yet, 
But eyes reflecting depths of quiet dread. 

The math is cruel, the runway getting short, 
Yet giving up is not a path she knows. 
With heavy steps and shoulders squared to fight, 
She moves ahead into the closing storm, 
Determined, through the dregs of what is left, 
To honor the dead, and shield the living mind.