I DREAM ABOUT MY MOTHER
She has been dead
for twenty-seven years.
Yet, somehow,
in a sick trick
she has come back,
reentered our lives
years after paralyzing grief.
Cancer’s destruction has
cleared from our eyes.
I know she is asleep
down our long hallway
of my childhood home.
Her body is very much alive
under heavy covers
on her side
of my parents’ bed,
where my young feet
used to find my way
on a treacherous night.
I thrash in my sleep.
Sounds of whimpers
mask waves of tears
in my dream.
I want to go to her
but, I am strangely afraid,
scared to see
what now lies among us.
Anger, seeps through me
at her betrayal
of lost time.
Scared too, you see,
of what lies within me
what she will see
in this void of time
pieces of myself
that might just be
better without her.
Strength I have earned
without her eyes upon me.
I WOULD HAVE DONE IT DIFFERENTLY
October 7, 1985
If I hadn’t been giggling with a girlfriend
in seventh grade English class,
playing with plastic sunglasses,
there might not have been
the knock at the door.
Mrs. Crabtree might not have
slipped a note into my teacher’s hand,
called my name,
told me to gather my things.
Her stern face confused me.
I must have done something terribly wrong.
Maybe we wouldn’t have
walked to her office in silence,
struck to see my best friend’s mother
trembling in front of me.
I am so sorry, Jennie.
My sister walked with her riding coach
down from the upper school,
pain, spread like fire between us,
as I ran to her arms.
Mrs. Hyatt drove me home
in her station wagon.
I felt numb, leaned my head against a window
as I watched trees, streetlights, and telephone wires.
Our long house was lined with cars,
people hovered in every space.
I found my father
in our dining room.
Ashen, and trembling with grief,
his arms pulled us to him.
MY BODY IS DIFFERENT
I trust the nurse with the bobbed blond hair,
her hot pink floral shirt
too tight across her chest.
I want to lean in,
forget why I am being tested,
rest into her,
to know it will be alright.
My comfort drains away
as she pierces the wrong vein,
and a fire spreads through my arm.
Memories bloom inside me
of failed IVs,
my mother’s skin worn thin
with cancer.
I am too fragile
for a nurse’s blunders.
My grief still fresh under years of time.
I need strong hands,
wise fingers
to push me through this day.
To validate my faith
that my body is different.
She hands me off to another nurse,
I look her cautiously in the eye
as she easily slides the needle into my wrist.
With her back to me,
she checks my chart,
confused as to why
I am here this young.
She rubs my arm,
says gently,
Your mom died so young.
We share the realization
I am now thirty-nine,
the age she was.
PHONE CALL
It’s late into night
a time when my house
slips into an eerie costume
with strange shadows,
creaky hallways,
and reflections of my face
alone in mirrors.
The truth of my prognosis
begins to swell in my mind.
I know what I have to do.
My phone seems a mile away,
blurred from my tears.
Defeated, yet desperate,
I must once again surrender
to my mother’s strength
as I face this battle.
I sit on a cold kitchen chair,
my nightgown brushes tiled floor.
Thirty-six years old,
I collide with my future.
I dial her number
as silence moves
across this room.
I hear my voice
begin to tremble,
Mother, I need you
to move here,
the children will need you.
THE SCHOOL BUS LETS ME OFF
at the bottom of Noelton Drive
below John Osborne’s driveway.
It’s shorter if I cut through his yard,
so I run in my plaid pleated skirt,
afraid that someone in that dark stone house
will come out, yell at me for trespassing.
It’s 4:15 p.m. when I get to my kitchen door.
I don’t want to think about dance class
or my sixth grade social studies quiz
that sits like a rock
in the bottom of my backpack.
All I want is a toasted bagel
with just the right amount of margarine
soaked into crusted bread,
to sit in front of the TV, but I don’t.
I need to go to my mother’s room.
The house is quiet, too quiet.
my sister is at the horse barn,
Dad isn’t home yet.
Guilt pushes me down the hallway.
I tuck my hair behind my ears,
straighten my skirt,
take a breath,
and prepare for anything
a smile, some small talk,
or to just wash my hands
and place a needle in her side
like a nurse showed me
on a grapefruit.
She has been dead
for twenty-seven years.
Yet, somehow,
in a sick trick
she has come back,
reentered our lives
years after paralyzing grief.
Cancer’s destruction has
cleared from our eyes.
I know she is asleep
down our long hallway
of my childhood home.
Her body is very much alive
under heavy covers
on her side
of my parents’ bed,
where my young feet
used to find my way
on a treacherous night.
I thrash in my sleep.
Sounds of whimpers
mask waves of tears
in my dream.
I want to go to her
but, I am strangely afraid,
scared to see
what now lies among us.
Anger, seeps through me
at her betrayal
of lost time.
Scared too, you see,
of what lies within me
what she will see
in this void of time
pieces of myself
that might just be
better without her.
Strength I have earned
without her eyes upon me.
I WOULD HAVE DONE IT DIFFERENTLY
October 7, 1985
If I hadn’t been giggling with a girlfriend
in seventh grade English class,
playing with plastic sunglasses,
there might not have been
the knock at the door.
Mrs. Crabtree might not have
slipped a note into my teacher’s hand,
called my name,
told me to gather my things.
Her stern face confused me.
I must have done something terribly wrong.
Maybe we wouldn’t have
walked to her office in silence,
struck to see my best friend’s mother
trembling in front of me.
I am so sorry, Jennie.
My sister walked with her riding coach
down from the upper school,
pain, spread like fire between us,
as I ran to her arms.
Mrs. Hyatt drove me home
in her station wagon.
I felt numb, leaned my head against a window
as I watched trees, streetlights, and telephone wires.
Our long house was lined with cars,
people hovered in every space.
I found my father
in our dining room.
Ashen, and trembling with grief,
his arms pulled us to him.
MY BODY IS DIFFERENT
I trust the nurse with the bobbed blond hair,
her hot pink floral shirt
too tight across her chest.
I want to lean in,
forget why I am being tested,
rest into her,
to know it will be alright.
My comfort drains away
as she pierces the wrong vein,
and a fire spreads through my arm.
Memories bloom inside me
of failed IVs,
my mother’s skin worn thin
with cancer.
I am too fragile
for a nurse’s blunders.
My grief still fresh under years of time.
I need strong hands,
wise fingers
to push me through this day.
To validate my faith
that my body is different.
She hands me off to another nurse,
I look her cautiously in the eye
as she easily slides the needle into my wrist.
With her back to me,
she checks my chart,
confused as to why
I am here this young.
She rubs my arm,
says gently,
Your mom died so young.
We share the realization
I am now thirty-nine,
the age she was.
PHONE CALL
It’s late into night
a time when my house
slips into an eerie costume
with strange shadows,
creaky hallways,
and reflections of my face
alone in mirrors.
The truth of my prognosis
begins to swell in my mind.
I know what I have to do.
My phone seems a mile away,
blurred from my tears.
Defeated, yet desperate,
I must once again surrender
to my mother’s strength
as I face this battle.
I sit on a cold kitchen chair,
my nightgown brushes tiled floor.
Thirty-six years old,
I collide with my future.
I dial her number
as silence moves
across this room.
I hear my voice
begin to tremble,
Mother, I need you
to move here,
the children will need you.
THE SCHOOL BUS LETS ME OFF
at the bottom of Noelton Drive
below John Osborne’s driveway.
It’s shorter if I cut through his yard,
so I run in my plaid pleated skirt,
afraid that someone in that dark stone house
will come out, yell at me for trespassing.
It’s 4:15 p.m. when I get to my kitchen door.
I don’t want to think about dance class
or my sixth grade social studies quiz
that sits like a rock
in the bottom of my backpack.
All I want is a toasted bagel
with just the right amount of margarine
soaked into crusted bread,
to sit in front of the TV, but I don’t.
I need to go to my mother’s room.
The house is quiet, too quiet.
my sister is at the horse barn,
Dad isn’t home yet.
Guilt pushes me down the hallway.
I tuck my hair behind my ears,
straighten my skirt,
take a breath,
and prepare for anything
a smile, some small talk,
or to just wash my hands
and place a needle in her side
like a nurse showed me
on a grapefruit.
