Just A Day
Ironic that the day after I post a blog about TMI, I'm about to get personal. Don't worry, I'm not going to detail my mammogram.
Today is just a day, but to me, it's not. Today is the anniversary of both my mom and dad's death. And I am never prepared for waking up with the whole-body bruise covering my insides. I'm in tears before I get out of bed, which doesn't bode well for the whole day.
"You want cream in your coffee, honey?"
"Yes--wait, no--bwahhhhaaa (sob)."
It makes for an unstable day at best, and a painful one at worst.
And it's just a day.
Other people are up, getting ready for work, making coffee. My one brother is probably putting on his shoes, but his eyes are staring at the carpet in a blank stare as he slips them on, his mind wandering to seven years ago, sitting in a chapel.
Some people may be vacationing, hiking, biking, on a beach My other brother is on vacation, too, but maybe today he doesn't feel like going to four different places. He only has the energy for two, because so much of his energy is being spent holding it together.
And it's just a day.
Some women are showering now, putting on their make-up. Making breakfast for their kids. My sister is putting on her mascara and as her eyes tear up each time she doesn't monitor her thoughts strictly, she has to wipe it away and start over, wondering how she will keep it on for work. She lets herself cry, lets it out, telling herself that if she just acknowledges it and gets it over with, she will have a normal, regular day. Just a day.
Reservations are being made for dinners out, plays will be attended, poetry readings, movie tickets on Fandango, and I will be working on edits, but the bruising on my insides will make breathing harder, and when my son asks me what's wrong, when his perceptive gaze falls on my face, I will tell him I'm fine at the exact moment that my eyes fill with tears.
Then I will have to explain the contradiction, tell him what day it is today, that it's just a day, but to me, it's a particular day. He will look down and say, "Oh," and he'll come and give me the pre-teen side-hug and glance at me as he walks away, not knowing how to quell my grief or even how to understand it.
About two or three years ago, I wrote a book for my family. I am the youngest of six, and my oldest brother is now sixty-five. We are all getting older. Since poetry is the language of the heart, I wrote each of my siblings a poem, from me to them, telling them who they are to me and how much they mean to me. It took me a year to write seven poems. Each one drained me emotionally to the point where I couldn't approach another one until I'd had time to recover.
I also wrote a poem for each of my parents, and I wish they were alive to read them, to know who they are to me, and how much they meant to me. I called the book To Carry On from the lines of the song, "And When I Die" by Blood, Sweat and Tears, a song my brothers play and sing on guitar (better than BS&T in my opinion). The words read:
And when I die,
and when I'm gone
there'll be one child born
in this world to carry on,
there'll be one child born
to carry on.
The books aren't for sale anywhere. I have a few copies left. I'm hoping my children will have them, give them to their children, and the memories of my family, through my eyes, will indeed carry on.
In closing, I'm going to share the poems to my parents as a tribute to them, to their lives and to their legacy. Today is just a day; but that's deceiving. You see, there isn't a day ever that is just a day to everyone--people everywhere suffer from grief, loss, pain and abandonment and I need to be mindful of that as I move forward in my life, I need to practice compassion and empathy for the world around me. Everyone has a day. Today is mine.
leader of the band
the system was in place,
your system,
and it wrapped itself around
and saved you from the
chaos inside you-
you reached out with strong hands
to tried and hold the world still
with six wriggling children
in your eyes.
you were a master,
a man of note
with music and numbers coming out of you
but you wanted the love to show, too
the love you needed
the love that parents could never provide you—
(how did they leave that hole
so big
and how could any of us
have
filled it?)
you tried
and everywhere you turned
the world turned, too
and you just wanted things to feel right
like when you sang
or when you did your ordinary tasks
like clockwork every day-
they couldn't understand
or wouldn't;
the endless digging and scraping
the discipline in the undisciplined…
you couldn't bear to miss a meal
but you missed so much
so that we could have so much
and no one ever saw that, did they?
(what else didn't we see?)
we knew you were there
our side
was your side
and although your way was the only way
we had to fight that-
it was inevitable…
it's how wriggly children work with
two parents
who held on
to the fraying fabric of their lives
with every breath they held—and let out.
your baton kept time
and you coaxed the singing angels
from a muffled sleep;
the leader of the band
only you saw yourself with the lenses backwards
even though you were always
giant to us when we were small.
but we grew
(and you wanted that and feared it
all at once)
you knew we would see you from a place above your own
and it frightened you
not to be so powerful-
but your lessons
for better or not
were the most powerful lessons we learned
we all stepped away from you
but never so far as to forget;
you saved us
from ourselves, and in a very real way
from you-
and could it be, throughout your life,
we managed to save you too?
~ja carter-winward 2012
(for my dad)
without you
today is your birthday
it seems wrong to not eat
rum cake today,
but i didn't
because i simply can't enjoy that
without you.
you gave us tree roots for legs,
reaching
deep into the earth
where no wind could sway us away
no torrent could bring us down
(you went down for us
keeping us safe from
the monsters under our heads)
when you ironed
you had day-dreams
that took you
into piles of imagination
that fed us-
you created more with your hands
than edible memories
but it's what i come back to
time and time
again-
it takes talent to make a person choke up
at gum drops and toothpicks-
tear up
when they smell a turkey roast-
(there isn't a piano concerto
by chopin i can listen to anymore)
you didn't ruin them for me
you brought them to life-
you managed to be you
when six of us needed you to be mom;
and i didn't know that being silly
was a life-skill
until i had children of my own
teaching us to play—we have all learned
to smile through tears…
you had a burning for soul,
for self
inside you—
with magic shoes that
thump-thump-thumped on the pavement
at 4a.m. when knees needed tape and feet
needed rest
and still you ran
you ran to fill you-
you survived and thrived with poison as your
morning and friday cocktail
crying and dying
and smiling all the while
and saying at last,
i am here! i am here!
and i will be
because i know…
you laughed at the unlaughable
you smiled at the wounds,
you wrapped your arms
around your sister and held her as tight
as she held you
and you still had enough arms to hold us
too—
and it all comes down, finally, to
today
with rum cake-
or the absence of it;
the piano keys thrumming in my ears,
the smell of a turkey;
the sound of
your voice
that i simply can't enjoy
without you.
~jacw 10/16/12
(for my mother)
