In anticipation of guests, the hostess – always bent on pleasing – carefully selects the script, ascribes roles, envisions an afternoon of light repartee, peppered with philosophical pondering – satisfactory entertainment.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, confident in the outcome, fatally smug.
Crowd arriving, she fails to read disinterest in eyes, politely attempts to orchestrate interactions, while they cast about, calculating, shunning protocols of etiquette, dispersing in an unsettling way, then returning, savagely encircling their prey.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, panic rising, confusion overriding confidence.
Unprepared to defend herself – bears no arms but the giving type – she ducks, grasps, attempts retreat from the onslaught of vindictive agendas, but the wall of stored grievances, spotlighting a history of injustices, corners her, hopelessness in its wake.
They’re just family, after all, she tells herself, knowing full well the legacy of pain.
It’s friends, in the end, who save her – a surefooted cavalry, bearing the swords of understanding, compassion their war cry – reigning in the once-invited, now betraying guests – objective hearts demanding an end to the fray.
They’re just family, after all, she tells them, tells herself, composure a mere thread.
Tables turned, the offenders now plead for forgiveness, beg for help, pretend the slights were unintentional, harmless, expect their hostess to step over the bloodied and slain bits of herself, and with benevolence, restore her love for them again.
They’re just family, after all, she says weakly, the torn script of her expectations scattered.
(My art, entitled She Stands In the Middle of It All. This poem first appeared May, 2016)
I’m being a good girl, Dad Staying out of sight Keeping my needs to a minimum Promise I don’t cry, Dad.
I’m being a good wife, Dad Cooking all his favourites Letting him walk ahead Never uttering a peep, Dad
I’m a perfect background wife, Dad Just like you taught me; just like Mom Only no one has to hit me to make me behave, Dad; I learned it good from you.
If I were a kitchen, I’d want an old-fashioned woman at my counters – rolling dough canning pickles, chutney, jam, homemade pasta sauce, and every Sunday, a roast. She’d wear her sweat like a saint, ignore her aching back – one practiced hand feeding her Carnation baby, while other children flocked to Formica, hot flesh sticking to vinyl as they picked at fresh made sweet buns, the pot on the stove perpetually simmering.
Or give me modern efficiency – ninjas and presses, air fryers and induction cookers – let the children belly up to the breakfast bar, chomp on veggies and humus, while cook totes baby in a sling, and preps bone broth, strains of Baby Einstein emitting from a propped up iPad, while a cellphone vibrates on granite, and the Keurig spits out Starbucks Pike.
Just don’t abandon me, piles of unopened mail, or tossed aside receipts company for coffee rings on my counters. Please don’t litter my surfaces with rotting takeout containers, or dishes caked with processed cheese – don’t leave my stainless steel sinks stained, spoiled food reeking in the refrigerator, traces of late night mishaps curdling on the floor; absence of familiar sounds declaring my presence invalid.
Did you know that life would come to this? Flattened memories pressed between wax the essence of our efforts forgotten, the dreams, so carefully construed, lost.
You leaned toward the conventional, and I was ever the sentimentalist, and yet we ended up in the same place – shadow selves standing at the banks of our dishevelled lives…
Survivors, nonetheless, tokens of a a past riddled with so many lies, so much heartbreak…
We are ghost sisters haunted, hunting, unable to step away –
Drawn in, pulling apart – all that remains.
(Family Portrait first appeared here February, 2019. Edited here. Image my own)
Child of mine, what rage is this that sets you against a younger brother?
What discontent stirs so deeply within that you would lash out at me, your mother?
Let us sit a moment, and let me, with tenderness, listen, for your anger masks pain, and I am not so far removed from childhood to recognize that tone.
If I have wronged you, speak; I need to hear it. If peers are pressuring, or bullying, or you feel betrayed, lay it here in my hands, and I will comfort you, and offer what wisdom I have.
Your well-being is sacred to me; let me hold you – you’re not too old – linger here in my embrace until the tears come, and the storm passes; I will hear your fears, frustrations, and disappointments, and together we will figure it out.
Child of mine, I am here for you, no matter the reason; your pain is my pain, talk to me; I am listening.
(This poem first appeared Dec, 2019. Image my own)
Calm, the morning air, mind lost in reflection, mirror-still waters
Raise my eyes skyward, pray for release, an end to Mother’s suffering.
Nothing. Death has its own rhythm – emotions mud.
(I wrote this poem a year ago, when my Mother was in and out of hospital with heart failure and pneumonia. Now, a year later, she continues to struggle. “We live too long,” she says. “Pray for my release.” Photo: Mom at 94, courtesy of my son.)
I wake before dawn, drive through blinding snowstorms, if lost, alter course – without faltering – even set out on foot when driving becomes impossible, navigating treacherous snow and ice, for you
So you can get where you need to be So you can succeed I risk it all for you
I keep you by my side so that you will be safe so that I can ensure your arrival
But, I grow weary, and my body won’t go on, and all I ask for is that we rest awhile, so that I can catch my breath
And in that instance, you are gone – no hesitation in your step, no looking back – and when you finally stop to wait for me it is too late…
A barrier has grown between us: like an eight-foot, chain-link fence separating me from protecting you
And you look at me with that glare of exasperation that says: “I should have done it on my own.”
Wait! Wait, I say. This wall may seem insurmountable but I can do it. I can do it; give me time. I’ll just climb to the top. It’ll be easy; you’ll see!
Don’t walk away! Give me one more chance to prove my love. I do it all for you.
(Martyr’s Lament first appeared here in November, 2014. This version is a rewrite. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 