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.)
Between festive preparations and Mother’s dying wishes I walk a surreal line – numbed surface belying broiling depths
I will serve the bird, scrape the carcass, sing praises and slip into solitude to grieve – Mother’s flesh languishing.
(Last year, when I penned this poem, my mom was contemplating assisted dying. I supported her wish, but not without accompanying grief. This year, her absence weighs heavily on the preparations for Christmas, and I know I am not alone. Many of us feel our losses even deeper at this time of year.)
Mother followed all the trends – Scarsdale and grapefruit diets, minis and maxis, platforms and pumps – reaching for an ideal my child’s mind could not comprehend
Father dreamt of a voice makeover had flown his ancestral roots in search of…what? I did not know
I learned that men were to be pleased, and compassion was a woman’s role and it was folly to hazard confrontation when alcohol was in the mix,
Intangible as life was I deduced that secrets – the avoidance of scandal – rendered women ineffective
and by the very circumstance of my birth, I was tainted, weighted by shame destined to endure pain as love invested in my worthlessness
Except life is evolution and rage emerges from oppression and conviction smashes the impotence of ideals, embraces the abstracts of fluidities,
and merging out of shame I see that struggle is opportunity
and that rewriting legacies is an honourable goal and I do have power in any given moment…
The pot simmering on the stove really should be boiling, but baby needs changing, and He-who-is-charged- with-watching-the-children is asleep in his chair…
Where to lay the infant – her soiled and sodden diaper threatening its own release – when her siblings have dragged all the bedding – fort-intended, now abandoned under foot?
Turkey is in the oven legs trussed, flesh buttered and salted… Baby’s skin is red her squirming legs noncompliant
Dog offers his presence curious nose intervening… I leave the wriggling bundle to dispose of offending nappy – images of dog mouthing contents beyond current capacity
Children’s giggles signal misadventure, as bath water spills into the room, husband stirring, “Smells good!” says he pushing buttons on the TV remote
Ankle deep in water contents of pot now burning, awareness dawns – the forgotten baby is now missing… madness achieved.
(Another dream inspired nonsensical poem. Image my own)
One Woman's Quest 