bit by bit

i used to create
to entertain others,
but now i do it
in an attempt
to piece
my broken self
together,
bit by bit.

One Word

I walk into the local market to pick up some almond milk and one can of organic grain-free dog food.  I wander the aisles just in case I'm missing something important, but I feel much like a lost soul.  From aisle to aisle I discount we need more eggs, dried beans or mixed greens.  Careful about adhering to a budget, I put the two items on the conveyor belt, pay and head out the door.

While putting the cart away, I hug another basketball mom who I haven't run into since Jerry passed.  She asked what happened.  "Cancer.....all clear....sick all summer....no answers...pain." 

The word stuck in my throat.  Pain. My husband endured so so much.  I just lost it. 

Refuge

Loneliness magnifies sorrow

That things in life aren’t easier or just.

It is my dip into the disfunction

That compels me to seek refuge alone

Yet,

I am alone.

Loneliness magnifies

The sorrow

I carry with me always.

I seek refuge.

the view

The world is distorted through rain.

the risk

                                                                                           Copyright: Travelinma


Is it possible to feel too deeply?
A heart that aches incessantly,
Holds room for joy too.
Cannot sorrow and joy inhabit the same chambers?

For what is a life without the highs and lows?
The fullness of heart is preferred,
Over hollow.
Is it not worth the risk?

Empty

She walked in the room.  It was stripped of everything that belonged to him.  No note.  No explanation. Nothing.  It left her empty.  Sad.

Was she responsible? She may never know.

She stood in the room.  Alone in the silence.  

The Absence of Justice

Sometimes bad things happen,

Innocence

Confused by guilt.

A mother speaks out:

All parties

Move forward.

Be positive.

A mother speaks,

The Power is all-powerful,

And

Deaf.

When will

There

Be

Justice?

The Unthinkable

A tribute to all mothers who face the unthinkable.

Mother dropped

To her knees,

Sobbing,

Ragged waves

Of

Grief.

Six year olds

Aren’t suppose to

Die.

Being Bold

Despite our best efforts, each Sunday we were habitually late.  The few Sundays my family managed to go out the door with time to spare, we would become caught on the wrong side of a railroad crossing counting the hundred or so cargo cars itching for the caboose to pass. Despite the fact that mass had already begun, my mother would prance down the middle aisle insisting that we all slide into the front pew to the left of the altar.  My mother was bold.  Being bold was just practice for defending what is right and just in this world.  We were all to meet our share of injustice, but it was my brother who was particularly susceptible to attract the cruelty of others.  

The very first time I was aware of this injustice toward my brother was a Sunday morning that we were late to church.  My mother waved her arms to hurry us along and we all moved as fast as we could in our Sunday finary.  (My brother having Cerebral Palsy has a functional gait that looks quite a bit different than average.  In order to walk, he engages his whole body to thrust each leg forward.) I noticed a group of two or three kids snickering and pointing at my brother while one of them mimicked his movements.  My mother held my hand a bit tighter and grew  taller as she raised her chin, keeping her gaze forward. We all moved in closer to each other.  I swallowed hard and blinked through the tears.  There are different ways to be bold.

My brother never complains.  He has never considers himself a victim, but since that Sunday morning so long ago, I have appointed myself his protector.  The other night while dining at one of his favorite restaurants, he told of how the former host of the restaurant would mimic his gait and laugh at the way he walked.  As my sister shared this with me tonight, I suddenly became ill-sickened by how cruel people can be. I cried wondering how often this happens to my brother.  There are different ways to be bold.    

One Regret

I’m sure that my father was plenty afraid, but he never showed it, but once.

I sat in the standard hospital leatherette chair and knitted while he slept. Hour after hour. The monotony broken by thumbing through the stacks of books or hospital magazines like People and Newsweek.  Mindless yards of knitting eased my nervous energy.   His requests were simple.  Black coffee and a piece of chocolate cake.  The only problem was he couldn’t swallow well.  The thicken coffee and soupy ice cream instead of cake made it easier to go down.  My father’s recovery seemed to balance on the hope of getting him out of bed and moving.  Since the fall and the subsequent severe shoulder injury, it was difficult and painful to move.  With human assistance, two physical therapists would sit him up in the bed and swing his legs around to touch the floor.  That is as far as it went.  After days of existing in bed, he was too weak, refusing to move.   The only hope was a hoist.

His condition had stabilized. He had some hard work ahead. With my abled body and mind this was not only necessary from my perspective, but possible for him. I was not ready to lose him.  I thought he had the fight in him. My father was stubborn.  If he was mad at you, his silence would last intolerably for weeks.  “Come on Daddy, you can do this.  It is going to be hard, but you are strong.  You’ve got to do this.  I love you.  You’ve got to...so you can come home.”  The pep talk drifted to a pleading and a begging. His gaze drifted from me.  I did not want to believe that he had given up and I had convinced myself that I was a distraction.  After being out of work and away from the family for more than a week, I decided to return.  

The hoist was secured around my father’s body.  I started walking out of the hospital room, turning back to say goodbye and that I would come back in a matter of days, “I love you Daddy.”

His eyes met mine.  His sad brown eyes, eye brows knit together in fear and terror. Literally, my heart ached. I froze in place. I wanted to stay, but I left.

A few days later I returned, his eyes remained closed as he drew his last breath.  

I have one regret, maybe I should have stayed.   

Freely

Squeezed dry

Sadness remains

Where hope

Once was,

This heart

Has no

Regrets.

It has given

Freely.

In Sickness and In Health.....

                                                -Rex's bland diet

Each night our double bed is overflowing with life inhaling, exhaling stretching and snoring.  I slip under the layers of sheet, blanket and comforter and I start to yank, fighting for cover and more than a postage sized space to lay prone.  It is quite a process to investigate the real estate claimed by canine and feline.  Cats on the pillows,  all curled with nose touching tail.  Others stretch wherever there is space. stepping over dog, whose ears twitch in recognition and certainly not in irritation.  We are a family where there is room for all.

Hunched, I sat on the side of the bed last night.  My hand covering my eyes, elbow on knee, I was worried about my sick pup.  Rex had not moved all night.  Like checking a newborns breath, my hand rested gently on his aching side and I watched my hand move with each breath.  Shallow, quick breaths.  He recognized my presence his eyes opened glassy and sick.  His tail between his legs.  He lay motionless.  Pitiful.

I lay on my side, moving my body like a contortionist to fit in the tiny space that was left on the bed.  I kissed my boy, nestling my nose into his neck and was soothed by long gentle strokes along satiny fur.  Whispering of my love and  I spoke of fishing at camp, runs at the Stone Barn and long trips in the car.  My armed craned over his body, I closed my eyes and prayed.

One More Moment

I turned to leave catching a glimpse of his brown eyes casting so much feeling, it made words unnecessary.  He was afraid.  Afraid to move after the fall.  This made everything worse. The Parkinson's Disease didn't help either.  The Physical Therapist had him in a hoist to support his weight giving him a sense of stability.  In a soft voice that I thought would be reassuring I cooed, "It will be OK Daddy.  You'll be OK." I guess I was in denial. I left.

When I was a little girl, the day after Halloween marked a day when I would slide into a pew at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and pray for people I did not know.  All Soul's Day.  The list went back by generations-family that remained nameless.  "I pray for my grandmother's mother, my grandmother's father,  my grandmother's grandmother," I mouthed.  It didn't feel real.  Just an obligation.  Never did I realize at seven years old that I would one day be praying for the souls of my grandmother, my grandfather, my mother, my father, my aunts and my uncles.  

"I can't be here.  I can't," I managed to whisper breathlessly.  "I can't breathe.  An elephant is on my chest. I can't do it."  Closing my eyes, I remained motionless.  My body heavy and incapable of supporting my own weight in a seated position, never mind move to another room or the hall where I could forget.  

"If you leave.  You can never take this moment back," my sister confided. Choking back tears, I thought about how I had left my father a few days ago.  This time I stayed.  I needed to be here for my father.  Through this transition.  

Today my "All Soul's List" is just as long as when I was seven years old, but now I can remember how my father's bearded cheek scratched against my face when he snatched a kiss.  I remember the oversized hand that reached out to walk me safely across the road.  Old Spice after shave brings a flood of real memories. My heart aches in longing for one more moment.

Losing

Fear shakes me from

Slumber,

Losing you

Fresh,

The heartache lingers.

It was just a dream,

But so vivid,

Real.

I wake with a

Thirsty heart,

Every moment

Precious.

Don’t leave me.

I love you.

Running Away-Take 2

(One of the benefits of my experience this week with the folks from Columbia University's Teacher College are some strategies to really dig deeper and figure out what writing selections are really about.  When I posted the original, I was happy.  The next day I added a new beginning.  Do you think it works? Does it add more dimension to the piece?)

“My mother never…” my youngest daughter began to tell the hairdresser. I craned my ear in the direction of the conversation from the cushy corner seat of the small salon.  “gives me money.  I do work and I don’t get money.”

Leave the conversation right there and it sounds like child labor.  What’s my hairdresser going to think of me? I thought.  Suddenly, I am leaning forward, my hands on my knees so my daughter and I are eye to eye. The black cape covering her torso has little snippets of her curly brown hair.  The hairdresser keeps cutting. “Wait,” I begin in a voice that is probably louder than I think it is, “I just gave you fifteen dollars this morning for the movies.  We just went to TJ Maxx. I bought you an outfit.  The sushi, what about the sushi?” I sucked in one breath so I could continue-I keep talking.  “Would you rather get a weekly allowance or be able to get something special almost each time we shop?  Or next time, you can pay.  What would you rather?”

I only notice that the hairdresser had gone when she returns to separate the fullness of my daughter’s hair in sections with clips. “I was telling her that I have money, but I don’t get money. ” my daughter offered, seeming a little confused.   Had I made a big deal out of nothing? Had the fact that my daughter was not where she promised she’d be AGAIN, necessitating a race from Trenton to Bar Harbor and then back to Ellsworth in 40 minutes to make the appointment on time-did that have anything with my stress level and my approach?  I seemed to carry a slew of ‘mother rules’ with me. Good mothers don’t let stress get to them.  I stepped back and felt like a big huge elephant stomping through the salon making mess of things, but there was no where to hide.  I could hear the rushing pulse in my ears. My throat ached. Surely, I am not a good mother.  I feel trapped in a tight space and I walk out of the salon and into a little foyer with a couch.  Flopping down hard, I sit.  I breathe. I need to get a grip, I thought.

I return.  The hairdresser continues to work the flat iron through my daughter’s hair.  The air feels heavy and I start to pace.  I don’t really trust what is reality.  Did I come on a little too strong with my daughter?  Was I just a little impulsive in responding to the conversation that I was not part of initially?  Would a good mother make such a big deal out of nothing? Good mothers don’t question themselves.  They always do the right thing.

I pack all these doubts in a satchel that I drag home with me.   I carry it through my dreams that night and it lingers as I first step toward the bathroom in the morning. The litany of what good mothers do plays over and over in my head. Where had I collected all my good mother rules?  Maybe I simply needed a break.

“Come.  Come for a few days,” my friend offered.

Silence followed.

                     “I…I don’t know, “ I stammered.  “I’m not sure I can leave.”

            “See you soon,” and my friend added, “I love you.”

            If they don’t blame me-I blame myself. I sat in the sun, closed my eyes and realized I was hidden behind the towering stand of sunflowers in the garden.  I wasn’t there long.  Muffling the sobs I moved to the large field-the grass tickling my bare skin, laying flat on my back, arms outstretched, squinting against the sun to watch the set of moving clouds evolving into the curving muscle arm of Cape Cod. This has always calmed and grounded me. My breath slowed, but then my throat tightened. Not working.  Doubt persists.  Am I a good mother?   Into the house I went.

            “Ma, you know you have been a grouch for the last month.  You know you have.” my 18 year old hissed.

            “That has nothing to do with the fact that your friend is polluting my air waves with bad language in front of your sister.  He’s a guest in my house.” I yelled back, walking out the door that slammed behind me.  I retreated to the porch. Alone.

            Maybe I am a grouch.  Everything gets turned around and it is always my fault. I thought.  Suddenly, I felt that I needed to crawl into bed, alone. No one wants to be with me anyway.

            Hours later, Facebook did not prove to be the usual distraction: This planet is inline with that planet so it has been a wonky week.  How are you dealing with the wonky week? 

Is there any relief?  I mouthed softly.

My cell rang and hearing my friend’s voice let loose the tears from the tight spring that had held them back for hours. Her voice beckoned me to come join her for a dose of unconditional love.  Wonkiness embraced.

            Hanging up, I walked resolutely to the bedroom and stuffed a few essentials into a canvas bag and headed for the door. Leaving without a word. Minutes later I was in the car, barreling down the driveway, both wondering what the hell I was doing and at the same time feeling light and free.  Convertible top down, my bangs blew from my face and my vision was clear, but just for a moment.

            Good mothers don’t run away.  I could just drive to camp, I thought.  That’s not exactly running away.  I hope they remember to let the chickens in at night. And we are using the last roll of toilet paper in the house.  No one knows.  That could be bad.  Supper?  Bet they will have lobster.  They won’t miss me at all.  The tears flowed.  I drove right passed camp and headed north-the winding roads through thick forests and mountains-the views familiar, yet breathtaking.  Blinking hard the tears stopped.  I need this.  I need this. I need a break. That’s what good mothers do.

            My friend was sitting on her porch, waiting for me with hearty hugs. I left everything in the car, but agreed to a cool glass of water.  As we sat around her table and talked, the laughter replaced the tears.  Dinner came with stories and more laughter. Good mothers have friends. They have an adult life too.

            Crawling into bed when it was barely dark, I was alone. Looking at the ceiling, I thought of my children.  Restless, I moved from my back to either side trying to seek comfort. Was this borrowed bed facing the same way that my home bed faced? I wondered if that was why I couldn’t sleep and then I thought of my husband, my dog Rex and the extra emptiness in my bed at home that my absence provided.   Shifting on my left side, I looked out the window and into the expansive star-filled sky.  The quiet helped me gain a perspective with the space of time.  I am loved and good mothers falter.  All is well.  Gratitude at that moment shifted my heart toward home and all that I had left behind.  I knew that I would return in the morning for that is where I belong.

Running Away

                     “Come.  Come for a few days,” my friend offered.

Silence followed.

                     “I…I don’t know, “ I stammered.  “I’m not sure I can leave.”

            “See you soon,” and my friend added, “I love you.”

            If they don’t blame me; I blame myself. I sat in the sun, closed my eyes and realized I was hidden behind the towering stand of sunflowers in the garden.  I wasn’t there long.  Muffling the sobs I moved to the large field- my arms outstretched, squinting against the sun to watch the set of moving clouds evolving into the curving muscle arm of Cape Cod. This has always calmed and grounded me. My breath slowed, but then my throat tightened. Not working.  Into the house I went.

            “Ma, you know you have been a grouch for the last month.  You know you have.” my 18 year old hissed.

            “That has nothing to do with the fact that your friend is polluting my air waves with bad language in front of your sister.  He’s a guest in my house.” I yelled back, walking out the door that slammed behind me.  I retreated to the porch. Alone

            Maybe I am a grouch.  Everything gets turned around and it is always my fault. I thought.  Suddenly, I felt that I needed to crawl into bed, alone. No one wants to be with me anyway.

            Hours later, Facebook did not prove to be the usual distraction: This planet is inline with that planet so it has been a wonky week.  How are you dealing with the wonky week? 

Is there any relief?  I mouthed softly.

My cell rang and hearing my friend’s voice let loose the tears from the tight spring that had held them back for hours. Her voice beckoned me to come join her for a dose of unconditional love.  Wonkiness embraced.

            Hanging up, I walked resolutely to the bedroom and stuffed a few essentials into a canvas bag and headed for the door. Leaving without a word. Minutes later I was in the car, barreling down the driveway, both wondering what the hell I was doing and at the same time feeling light and free.  Convertible top down, my bangs blew from my face and my vision was clear, but just for a moment.

            I could just drive to camp, I thought.  That’s not exactly running away.  I hope they remember to let the chickens in at night. We're on the last roll of toilet paper in the house.  I hope they figure it out. Supper?  'Bet they will have lobster.  They won’t miss me at all.  The tears flowed.  I drove right passed camp and headed north-manuvering the winding roads through thick forests and mountains-the views familiar, yet breathtaking.  Blinking hard the tears stopped.  I need this.  I need this.

            My friend was sitting on her porch, waiting for me with hearty hugs. I left everything in the car, but agreed to a cool glass of water.  As we sat around her table and talked, the laughter replaced the tears.  Dinner came with stories and more laughter.

            Crawling into bed, it was barely dark and I was alone. Restless, I moved from my back to either side trying to seek comfort. Was this borrowed bed facing the same way that my home bed faced? I wondered if that was why I couldn’t sleep and then I thought of my husband, my dog Rex and the extra emptiness in my bed at home that my absence provided.   Shifting on my left side, I looked out the window and into the expansive star-filled sky.  I am never alone, I thought.  Gratitude at that moment  shifted my heart toward home and all that I had left behind.  I knew that I would return in the morning- for that is where I belong.

Plucked

Crawling into bed,

Pressing the pillow

Against my ears,

Squeezing both eyes shut,

I shut out the world.

Amid the crying,

The screaming,

Accusations,

I hide in

Fear.

Fear that I will lose them

Both

And be alone.

Abandoned.

The feeling

Of Abandonment

Even now,

Worms its’ way

In

Each Cell

Of my body

Tunneling through

My brain,

My heart,

My soul.

I fear being alone

And

Forgotten

Like a sweet raspberry

Plucked

From the vine,

Once the taste

Fades,

Is Forgotten.

Tiny Pieces

If I could

Tear away

Tiny Pieces

Of my heart,

I could

Rearrange

And fill in

The emptiness,

And replace them

With

Gratitude,

Joy,

Patience.

If I could

Tear away

Tiny Pieces

Of my heart,

I would.

Fed and Nourished

Pulsing with anger,
Fear,
And an aching heart,
The lies,
The deception
Feed and nourish
The hurt.

Will
The
Grip
Loosen?
Will
Pain
And
Sadness
Ever
End?

Hopeless.
I think
Not.

Poetry Continued

 Deep

I'm in deep, 

I push against the weight of the water,

Kicking,

Looking toward the surface 

For light,

Air.

All I receive is darkness. 

Will I ever breathe again? 

 Depleted

The water seeps slowly

Through the fissures,

With barely

A notice,

Until,

The water

Is

All

Gone. 

I am as one,

Dead.

Depleted.