nonfiction – Page 4 – One Woman's Quest

Angels Watch Over Me

A letter came today –
an old-fashioned,
hand addressed,
post delivered,
greeting.

It’s the second
in two weeks –
simple messages
of encouragement,
heartfelt.

It’s from the same
angel that everyday
texts me a message –
a positive missive,
uplifting.

A letter came today,
and I felt ten years old,
special, remembered –
humbled by a simple act,
blessed.

A friend came by today,
had a rare day off –
thought of me –
offered her services,
selflessly.

Her confidence buoying,
we ventured out – pedi’s
then lunch – her quiet
offer of an elbow,
reassuring.

We talked about life –
grandchildren, husbands,
the state of the world,
and I felt normal,
alive.

A friend came by today –
and I was a kid again,
arm-in-arm with her bestie,
spontaneous and free,
cherished.

Sedentary

Spent the day in prone silence –
first as a human pin cushion
in the naturopath’s office –
motionless except my mind
pouring over Christmas plans.

Later, beside my granddaughter,
three-year-old arms akimbo
daring not to budge, until her
innocent breaths deepened –
my body burning to move.

Now, the window of energy
closed, I lie here with you,
no longer motivated to sort
or organize, my brain spent –
mindless poem on fingertips.

I Need You

What is wrong with me –
too tired to argue, finding
argument in every utterance,
wanting peace, contrarily
lashing out without reason?

Is it the effort to untangle
my mind from the jungle
of sleep that leaves me
shattered, head-throbbing,
overly protective/defensive?

Your words are assailants –
bullets piercing my already
inflamed cerebrum – I recoil,
(this is not passivity) too spent
to quibble with your fallacies.

Maybe it’s frustration following
moments of equilibrium, in which
I aspire to normalcy, make plans,
set goals, am body-slammed
into reality, deflated once again.

I am building walls, shunning
interaction – heart aching, soul
despaired, I threaten congeniality,
fall apart – am sorry, and not
sorry – angry, righteously.

If I had words, I would praise
your loyalty, thank patience,
extol virtue – but I am too weary –
the formulation and expression
of ideas buried deeply within.

What is wrong with me is
the constraints of my current
disability – smothering sensibility,
crushing potential – dismembered
complacency, gutted propriety –

I am raw, festering, cringing
remnant, psychically flailing,
resisting daemonic, magnetic
impulse to disintegrate, surrender
to nothingness – cease to exist.

Forgo your platitudes, search
my eyes for truth – find the light
that flickers there – soft sorrow,
clutching onto hope – a lifeline –
and hold fast with your love.

Hide(me)away

I covet a place hidden
from view, tucked in
between the Highway
Of Life’s Disappointments
and the Edge of the World.

Access cloaked by years
of unkempt bramble, forks
left, just before the abrupt
right turn onto the Freeway
Of Destiny’s Next Calling.

A hermit’s cottage, quaint,
shrouded in the Forest of
Puppeteers, where one can
live a simple pantomime –
pretend strings don’t exist.

Perpetually perched between
bustle and abyss – a child’s game
of I can’t see you, you must not
be able to see me – I’d sleep,
a blissful state of detachment.

Moments of Glory

Went for a walk today –
pushed my chariot out the door,
faltered after it and set out –
a beautiful, sun-blessed day!

It was an act of independence –
defying shooting pain in shins,
a groaning hip, an obstinately
bent spine – Carpe Diem, said I.

Two houses, three, I smiled
at passersby – “Beautiful day!”
our celebratory chorus – three,
four houses, freedom mine.

Five, six – I could see the corner
shops – half a block away – why
I bought this house – everything
close – until fated out of reach.

Then I felt it – that indescribable
shift in my spine, a warning –
shut down imminent – retreat!
Confidence melted into panic.

Now steps became a shuffle,
each foot dragged forward,
back curving in on itself, will
on full throttle – get me home.

Two houses more – you can
do it – husband stands at door
telling me to take my time –
No! No! Time is running out!

I stumble inside – find comfort
in the familiarity of my bed
think about giving into tears
then remember – the sun’s rays

generously washing over pale
housebound skin, the smell of
autumn, just before the cold –
a rare mid-November warmth

and I smile – a victorious,
proud recognition of how,
Nature offered a rare gift –
and I, for once, partook of it.

In Remembrance

I stare at the photo of my father,
that last Remembrance Day,
in awe of a person we never knew.

Just fifteen, the awkwardly tall
figure joined ranks with an elite
squad trained for unarmed combat.

He’s wearing his Commando’s beret,
medals proudly adorning his breast,
symbols whose meaning are now lost.

They were the best and the brightest,
sleuthing out enemy stores, carrying
imperative data to oncoming troops.

He cried that day, as candles glowed –
symbols of lives lost – “Good men,”
he muttered, and squeezed my hand.

A suicide mission, he’d called it,
armed only with a knife and hands
of steel – a black pill if caught.

By day, he never spoke of war,
at night, he screamed in terror,
Why such a mission? I asked.

He’d had his own secret cause,
a war waging within him – bent
on eradicating his heroic flaw.

War made my father – a disciplined,
regimented man of iron, intimidating,
fearless – machismo at its best.

He returned a hero, celebrated
with his hometown, and left again –
the lie still alive within him.

My father was a valiant soldier –
counted himself as privileged –
to serve alongside the honourable.

At fifteen, a girl whose body
belied her existence, enlisted
in a fight to become a man.

* * *

In remembrance of the countless men and women who put their lives on the line in the name of freedom – every one of which has a story.

A Friend, Indeed

Friend, you guide
my brain-fogged,
somnambulist limbs –
like a mindless automaton;
I follow, barely registering
movement – grateful for
deliverance into the
fullness of day.

Once, I abhorred
your consistency,
your stifling repetition,
found your dependency
mind-numbing, soulless –
suffocated in your lack
of notoriety – called you
unremarkable.

Undaunted, you persist,
morally unbiased, life-
affirming, ignoring
lethargy’s blood-
sucking hold, lifting
me, comforting,
habitually reliable,
blessed routine.

Those eyes – simultaneously
pleading and apologetic –
sweet eyes begging for attention
which I cannot give – understand
that I am unable to extend any
more responsibility – am over-
taxed – just want to retreat, be
burden-free – the affection you
crave from me unavailable.

Remember simpler times?
How you and I would curl up
arm in arm, on the rug in front
of the television – inseparable.
Disinterested, you would turn
your back to me, and I would
nestle into your solidity, feel
comforted, accepted, reassured.

Oh, how we’d play – outdoors,
you chasing me on my bicycle,
teasing, threatening to topple
and I’d laugh till I cried – I loved
you so. And at night, you would
sneak into my room and without
waking me, fall asleep – it was
our undoing – you were exiled.

I know you only wanted to be
near, but what you didn’t know,
couldn’t know, was that I was
never meant to be so attached
to another – that your loyalty
was affecting my well-being –
that unconditional love, such
as yours, was never in my
karma – please understand.

When I let you in my life again,
I was not the same person –
already worn down, unable to
open my heart – it was not you –
you are guileless, pure of intention –
I could never blame you – it is all
me – don’t give me those eyes –
you know I’d love you in a nano-
second if it were not for this
terrible affliction – this bodily
reaction to any contact between us.

Now you come to me in dreams,
eyes still tender, gentleness your
constant demeanour, still asking for
my acceptance and even in such
a state of unconsciousness, I both
remember your love and reject you –
what am I to do? I know you will
persist, have witnessed your dogged
determination – but do not know how
to respond – so undeserving, am I,
of your resilient love.

Rehabilitation Scheme

Disability wants me back to work
(rehabilitation they have promised)
and since I’ve given up my car –
driving is difficult when cognitively
impaired – I’ve decided to take a bus.

It’s a school bus, which is fitting,
although much harder to drive
than I had originally anticipated,
and since I’ve been assigned to
a new school, parking is a problem.

This is an inner city school, so no
parking on site, and if they expect
me to park at the back of some lot
across the street, they are sorely
misinformed about my capability.

I cannot walk that distance, and
come to think of it, I will not be
able to maneuver through the
hallways of this three-story ark –
we are not off to a good start.

I pull in front of the school – begin
my return by breaking rules – and
head for the office to explain my
misguided efforts and question
the sensibility of this whole idea

when I suddenly realize that even
before I’ve entered the classroom
I’ve just abandoned a whole load
of students, who are undoubtedly
wondering where their bus got to.

This rehabilitation scheme has
proven to be a bigger fiasco than
any extravagances I have allowed
myself – and paid for – since falling
ill – thank god I’m only dreaming.

To my insurance company, I say:
thank you for being there, and the
support administered monthly, and
please be patient – I will voluntarily
return to life when feasibly plausible.

For You, Dad

Anti-establishment
and flower power
formed the backdrop of my youth.
Women burning their bras,
Hippies holding sit-ins,
War in Vietnam.

Ideals began to form.

Beatles and Rolling Stones
were household names,
and school children took
the Pepsi vs. Coke challenge.
Twiggy and Mary Quaint
set the fashion stage.

I lived in creative times.

A flower-toting leader,
dating well below his years,
wooed his lovers and his nation
with a French accent,
and called in the army when
the FLQ threatened peace.

Passion awakened in my heart.

Open concept was my classroom,
education free-style.
We had a Wong and a Suzuki,
and watched the Black Panthers
on a sometimes-coloured TV,
and learned that we were WASPs.

I was on the edge of compassion.

Talk shows revealed infidelities,
and debated homosexuality –
criminal or mental instability?
Equal rights meant equal pay
while Country Clubs posted exclusions
and institutes housed the nonconforming.

I started questioning.

Home-made prevailed over store-bought,
and a Valium suppressed mother
kept my father’s castle,
and we went to church on Sundays
and practiced perfect smiles
and learned to pretend.

Enlightenment comes at a price.

Too young to understand the dynamics
of my brooding inner turmoil,
I raged at the discrepancies,
and swung with a fast right,
fighting for a justice
I could not articulate.

I learned to hate.

The consideration my father preached
was a one-way street.
He spewed racism, and sexism, and abuse;
over-worked, over-drank, and
railed against a world
where he could find no acceptance.

I discovered we had secrets.

Teen pregnancy, LSD,
and schizophrenia invaded
our patriarchal fortress,
internal combustion threatened,
yet we held fast to our façade –
happiness and solidarity.

When Dad came out I wasn’t ready.

High school came, along with disco;
Barbie dolls were traded
for platforms and menthols.
While Rocky Horror gained a cult following
my father revealed his own cross-dressing
ambitions and asked us to call him Liz.

I learned to run away.

Halter-tops and tight blue jeans
attracted adverse attention,
the police told me after the rape.
I crawled back home and began to cut
unable to feel through the armour
of numbness I had donned.

There was no way out.

Donahue paraded real life transvestites
before a disbelieving audience,
while psychiatrists spoke of deviant addictions.
Electric shock treatments broke my father,
he begged but I pushed him back in the closet.
We would not speak of it again.

I steeled myself against life.

Landlines, now, are disappearing,
Televisions smarter: Reality the new fiction.
Songza picks my playlists.
Integration and differentiation
are the educational goals I seek
to fulfill in my role as teacher.

Relief followed my father’s death.

LGBQT is on the forefront
workshops teach about sexual orientation
and gender identity,
and I learn that it is hormones –
not addiction – that decide,
and the realization pierces my heart.

There’s been a tragic misunderstanding.

My liberated, forward thinking mind,
strangled by a self-serving heart
slammed the door on possibility
eclipsing the brilliance and creativity
of the soul that was my father.
I never knew his authentic self.

There is no going back.

The river runs within me now,
a deep and endless stream.
The shards of my former reality
too shattered to mend; I stumble
humbled by the inadequacy
of this human existence.

I write for you, now, Dad.

Tag: nonfiction