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.)
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…
Mother said: “Look after your sister!” What she meant was: Take this burden off my shoulders; I am no longer able to cope.
Father said: “Do as I say, not as I do!” What he meant was: I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with my own problems, so don’t bring me yours.
Sister said: “Be a good auntie!” What she meant was: I am too young to be a mother, and you are much more responsible, so take care of my consequences.
So I ran away to build my own life: met a man and married, bought a house, had children, and dreamed of a future that would erase the past… but
Husband said: “If you really loved me, you’d lose weight, be less effusive, control your temper, and be more supportive of my choices.”
What he meant was: I’m going to grind you so far into the ground and then I’m going to cheat and cheat and you’ll have nothing left inside to do anything about it.
And without a word, I left.
What I meant was: I am a real person with needs of my own, and despite my faults or limitations, I deserve better.
(This is an edited version of an older poem by the same name, December 2018. Image my own)
Adolescence doesn’t wear a smile in our old photo album – stares fixated on unseen lint – distracted, we three sisters, all reeling from the cold, unwell, immobilized…
What is absent is the photographer whose pointed directions critique each decision – a derisive repetition that eats at our souls, each girl wrestling with self-nurture vs self-annihilation, landing somewhere in between – mannequin targets for male abuse…
Oh, I tried to take up arms, rail against the dominance, the oppression, but only succeeded in settling for disconnection, while one sister turned tricks for attention, the other retreated into full dependency, her madness, out of date, nevertheless relevant – despite our tormenter’s death, the images are permanently recorded in that old photo album.
One Woman's Quest 