“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.)
Nothing about the job intimidates him – has lived the ups and downs of mental health – besides, he cries for the children, abandoned who jump from home to institution, lost.
Nods at warnings about attachment knows all the drills of the hospital feels certain he’s found his place – is hit hard by the rejection
Seems personal experience, and the willingness to speak the truth about stigma, shunning and how many stay silent has no place on a ward where old school rules.
I’ve been remiss in expressing appreciation all the years you’ve carried me – stride confident, pace swift, head turning grace –
We wobble now, you and I, strength questionable stilted soldiers forging against a tide of contrary currents
Remember endless laps in the pool prepping for provincial meets, then dancing till the wee hours getting down with disco?
We were champions, you and I beauties taking on the world leap-frogging in a race against a undefinable foe, determined that destiny held no limitation
I may not have expressed it but each step is precious to me and every time you hold me upright, my gratitude’s sincere
There’s life yet to discover and dreams still burn Can you hear the drumming will you join me in the dance?
(Dear Legs first appeared here in October 2017. I submit this edited version for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: champion. Image my own.)
One Woman's Quest 