"Your father told me
to talk to you when
you're here."
I started,
not sure of what to say,
for risk of his
sudden yell and
quick temper.
"What can I say to you?
We are not the same.
You are not in agriculture,
we lived different lives, you and me."
He dropped his head,
like it was too heavy
to hold.
"If you want to talk,"
He continued,
head still down,
"ask me something,
and I'll answer."
The tape of despair
and grief repeated
between us
until he didn't see me
anymore.
Until I moved to him,
his eyes surprised as if
he had forgotten someone
was with him.
"I just want to be with you
while you're still here."
He looked past me.
I think one of the hard
truths in
witnessing prolonged dying
is that the living want
to know the meaning
in it all
and the dying want it to
end with or without meaning.
He doesn't want connection
to the living, now.
He wants to reach
nothingness
because that, to him,
is more tolerable than being left
by those who died before him.
So who am I visiting?
Who is this for?
When there is
nothing left to talk about,
when the differences between
the living and the dying
are so vast that
the words are for me, now,
and not for him.
Author: restlesscrescent
I write when I feel. I write to release and to share. This is my poetry. Most hours I spend on others, listening while I work as a therapist. This is a space for me. I hope you enjoy the pieces of self I choose to share with you.
confronting
I started to write
to make sense of the meanness
in a man so loving
that a smile offers
cherished affection.
Yet his exposive anger,
uncommunicated expectations
and biting criticism
tamper with and confuse
those who attend to him.
It took only moments,
a flittering of awareness
to realize
that as I write of him,
I write of me
and I wonder
how I can seek a life of
altruism
(or something like it)
yet be filled with
poison,
a selfish need seeking
righteousness
in my perspectve and
vitriol.
Meanness is in
the resilience
that brought a 24-year old
and his young wife
to a home of differences
from speech to inherent values.
His explosive anger is baked
in his despair
and treasured
love
of his late wife.
Control and jealousy
is sewn
through his anxiety and
fear of loss.
Can love exist freely
without ragged edges
and painful car rides home
does goodness require
the absence of bitterness?
In confronting him
I see myself
the complexities and
the multitudes
the different ways
we are the same.
pity painting
I feel like
i'm painted over
like a canvas used
by you and for you
to project
fears and wants
needs and unacknowledged
unfinished business.
It must be hard for you
when I try on colors
and textures
that have nothing
to do with you
I am not a painting
(too static)
I am an installation.
Your paint dries
and cracks,
it flakes as I
move and evolve.
Instead of seeing
changing art
you ask me why
I've ruined your work
(I wish you'd see me as I am)
pocket photo
"Will you tell me,"
I ask, quietly,
"what you miss about her?"
He looks past me,
drops his head.
We sit in silence, like that.
It's like this a lot,
disappearing into himself.
Visits feel more like
I'm sitting with a ghost.
I let myself stay like this.
Suddenly,
almost determined,
he reaches into
his battered shirt pocket,
takes out a thin wallet
He feels for a picture
and brings it to his lips.
He says nothing as he
places her back
against his heart.
His memories
are for him, now.
I don't have to hear them
to know
the ways he loved her
and all of the ways
he grieves his life
before.
whatever you want
how dare you ask me what I want request to hear the desires and dreams that I hold private when it is your voice and your standards that have twisted and clouded my own "what do you want?" followed by opinions and buts reasons I'm wrong or right "what do you need?" For you to stop making all of this (my life) about you.
I cannot know
if his love danced in romantic tones and heartfelt song he has no language no words to describe beyond survival and necessity the love he holds in his worn and worried heart - I've had to sense it uncover it It had to be felt. I found meaning outside of the literal interpretations of abrupt speech and long silences. There were no words used wastefully, in spurts of emotional wind he uses no breath excessively. Perhaps romance is for those who have time. He speaks of his first and last love as if she was born of his heart Inseparable intolerable one and the same it is confluence without codependence. I had to learn love in actions in crinkled smiles in lasting impacts of fleeting, fragile emotion. Love existed because they made it so in ways permanent and necessary as the food and drink they offered freely. In his recliner next to her bed they sleep and will sleep because rest escapes him when she is not there.
Chamomile
He tells me its name in his native tongue. I do not understand, at first until I smell its fragrance floral and sweet; subtle. Chamomile. He directs me upstairs in broken English; I pray I understand enough. "Grab a bunch, wrapped in newspaper." There in the attic of the duplex that two brothers made homes, I find the dried stems and flower - Grown in the garden that's fed family for 70 years. I bring down a bundle and she, before she lost herself, stands at the stove, boils a pot of water and places a handful into the simmering water. She makes tea. She makes tea for her and I. I take a sip as her cup sits she will not drink. She watches me and smiles. Now years later chamomile will remind me of them; their home and their garden. How fitting This flower holds many salves it is simple yet honored Its humble and enduring. Chamomile becomes the symbol of my roots.
Creases
He's smiling in the photo soft creases at the corners of his eyes I like to think I was given his smile. This morning I wondered what words i would use to describe him. How his voice, airy with age, greeted me, through that smile and the creases at the corners. He'd say, "we love you." I am grateful, he tried to offer my language of love. What words will tell of the generosity of a man who grew up before he was allowed to be a child? How will I share, fully, the ways he loved and worried in equal parts? He is not verbose ever curious, he holds space for others in conversation. He lacks patience, is quick to anger. But mostly quick to loyalty to his family. He is both mountain and sea Strong and peaceful Stubborn and learning Even when my Nanna forgets who he is and shouts insults, he attempts understanding. "Iola," He'll comfort, "What is it?" She shakes her head and falls behind the wall of her dimentia. He looks at me, creases at the corner of his eyes, "She was such a strong woman. She took care of all of us." Loyal I think I'll say. My grandfather was loyal, and steadfast in his love.
the fawn
I called to make peace, my head both raised and bowed in defense and apology Her words biting and wounded, "I think you're fake," She adds, "You're a fake ass bitch." I politely disagree. I attempt repair. I feel both scorned and pushed away. I feel defeat and self-protection. Years later, I wonder about her words. I decide that, maybe I am. You see, being nice isn’t always the answer. And I’ve learned that the hard way.
on regrets
I didn’t believe them when they said I’d regret; I’d build and we'll grow into twisted and tiny fragments of what came before. When I sit in pause they come to me in bursts and breezes I can regret and accept all in one breath.
The Restless Crescent 