When I had a mother my hair would cascade in curls of auburn perfection a red velvet bow to accentuate the wave
And I’d wear my best newly sewn frock with lace at the neck and fishnet stockings and patent Mary Janes
And the girls giggling with delight would skip hand-in-hand to the school prom and the boys shyly perched against the back wall would wonder how to behave, and we’d blush in return, begging them to dance
But now I have no mother and no matter how hard I try I cannot tame my too wild hair it’s bi-coloured frizz a nest of betrayal
And no girls invite me to join hands my state of dishevelment a conundrum to be ignored
So I stand against the back wall and hide amongst the boys and stay far away from the gossip
And everyone says it’s because I have no mother.
(Image my own. This poem originated from a dream, so is meant to be metaphorical, not literal.)
Is a child meant to carry her father’s legacy? The discomfort of his skin rubbing against her dreams till she is fallen, raw, paralyzed and unable to flourish?
Is a daughter meant to carry the burden of her father’s grief? His powerlessness hers? His fate hers to shatter?
I wear my father’s hurt like a personal affront am armed to go to battle
searching for the words that will set us both free
Weighed down by complications – you see, the amount of baggage I carry surpasses my storage capacity; and despite attempts to simplify, paranoia tends to my bathroom routines, and no amount of persuasion can appease her suspicions; and the majority of my contents have been accumulated by my father’s business, and not really mine to unload, although I try, his tyranny still haunts me; and well, anything new that I start has to be protected from the familial bouts of insanity; and that is why I just want to pack my bags and get out of here, and be a mother to my children; but it’s complicated.
Mother’s feet scream – agony of her miserable condition, underlying disease eating her. My feet, free of calluses, paddles slightly bent and fallen, carry on with forgiving kindness.
Husband’s knees are red-hot pokers shooting knife-sharp volts with every rickety step. Mine are knots in spindly trunks that bear movement graciously, allot me flexibility.
Father’s back grew weak faltering in the end, hunched, as if he’d born a cumbersome burden. My back, not without its moaning, carries me proudly erect – like the spring sapling, winter endured.
Uncle’s heart beats erratically, ceasing despite its mechanical support, his life a testimony to modern science. My heart flutters with expectancy, aches with disappointment, and soars with each new birdsong.
Sister’s tension rises, the stiffness in her neck suffocating, headaches blinding her vision. My neck, slung now like a rooster’s, puffs around my face like an old friend, allows me the comfort of perspective.
Brother’s mind has seized, lost somewhere between today and yesteryear – never certain of either. Mine, a constant churning cog, gathers information, spews ideas and bends in the face of creativity.
My eyes have seen suffering, my hands throbbed with desire to help; yet each bears their cross stoically, and so I watch with compassion and gratitude for the life I might have lived, had my own vessel not been so blessed.
The serpent alerted me boa sized terror disrupting sleep I tried to push it back but the beast insisted “Keep driving forward, woman I am at your side”
It came again infiltrating my slumber with a wide mouthed warning – “I could consume you, you better be ready”
Of course, I looked away.
It was a tiger next, whose force, unmistakeable sat upon my legs rendering me inert “You will pay attention” he warned. No argument there
But how am to decipher these nightly messages the power of such beings infiltrating my waking moments am I going mad?
It would be the wolf whose presence caught me mid-flight, awake while dreaming that startled me the most “No time”, he said, “the moment is now”
And I awoke with a shudder heart drumming an anxious tempo
and that’s when the letter arrived telling me that we were finished flesh of my flesh no longer forgiving and then the dog died and I know that things come in threes and the threads of my heart barely holding on can’t handle anything else and my mind burns with questions
If only I’d paid attention when that first snake appeared.
Note: My youngest sister (pictured on the left) and myself (in the middle facing the camera) are the only “survivors” of our family chaos. Mom passed this past May; our eldest sister (next in the lineup) died at 43 of cancer; Aunt D, next to me, of cancer at 68; our other sister suffers schizophrenia and Parkinson’s lives in long-term care; the baby of the group lost to heroin addiction and what we now recognize as human trafficking in her late teens.
“My father will always be a touchstone ghost. He comes around often, especially late at night when I’m singing…” – Raymond King Shurtz
A touchstone ghost? My father? A thick shame falls over the morning… Mother is dead now too, and her death, still fresh and ungrieved also hovers
What am I to make of the absence? parents who consumed so much of my energy – emotional energy, for sure –
Suddenly, they are gone and the silence echoes bouncing off the chamber where my guilt lies
Was I ever enough? I thought about walking away So many times…
But how could I? One dependent one abusive both declaring love
I am not infantile not rendered immobile but my heart does falter
If either ghost is a touchstone it is a measure of progress a beacon of survival
I wish them both well and infinite peace and well, I also wish them gone
It is the relief that comes with their passing that gives me pause…. am I really that cold-hearted?
No, not cold-hearted just worn out and longing to breathe
But ghosts linger spirit infiltrating generational layers
and I hear my father’s voice in my grown son’s compassion – a side he seldom could convey
and I see my mother’s resiliency in a granddaughter’s determination
and I know now what the grief is… the failure to recognize the gifts amid the constant suffering
Even in war their are blessings and I’ve forgotten to stop fighting still hold my breath, waiting for the fallout
Maybe the ghosts remain as a reminder
that I survived.
(Written for Holly Troy’s writing prompt: Everyday Ghosts, which invites us to breathe in a prompt (the quotation) and write without pause for 5, 10, 15 minutes.)
One Woman's Quest 