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.
Tag: family
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.
Sand
I arrive at the
front door of a house
that holds
the dynamics
of family
as pervasive
and as deep
as a bloodline.
At the doorstep I
witness the
lines of
victim-hood
blended with
the incessant
need to be right.
In the doorway
I take a breath
in anticipation.
I notice the sand
that's been carried in on
the feet of
my beloved
family members.
I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my own
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower.
I wonder
about the
rifts 20 years
in the making
and what they've
done to the floors
of this home.
They seem as
ubiquitous
and invisible
until felt
as the sand that
found its way
into the
fabrics
of this family.
The floors take the brunt of it
scratched and rubbed down
until layers of coating
are exposed raw
until the foundation of this
home cannot
hold the weight
of what we bring to it.
At the doorway
I look inside.
I see my mom and
her sister sitting
at the kitchen table.
I wonder what it is
I do not know
about the sand
between their own toes
particles they may not even
feel anymore
since its become
ingrained
into the way things are.
I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my feet
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower.
Sand belongs on the
shoreline
where the ocean can
do with it
as she pleases.
Here, the sand
clogs and scratches
it irritates and hollows.
I take another breath
remove my shoes.
I wash my feet of the
abrasive
and the stubborn.
I take care not to step
in the sand
my family
carries in.
In the next room
In one room
my grandmother begs for peace.
She cries for her mother,
screams in confusion and pain.
In the kitchen, he cooks dinner alone.
Smelts, fresh bread, salad, a beer.
I watch my grandfather as he moves
quiet and purposeful.
He fries the fish as he holds back tears.
He hears his wife cry out in pain.
His own is angry, frustrated.
He tells me,
“this was not supposed to happen.
This is not how I imagined the end.”
He sits at the kitchen table
the Steelers’ game plays in front of him
He does not notice me watching
as he drizzles hot sauce on his meal.
He turns, sensing me behind him,
tells me to grab a plate.
I do, knowing this is an important offering.
He fixes me dinner,
too many smelts than I can stomach,
salad, and bread.
I begin to eat silently next to him
This is his language of love.
He gets up suddenly
grabs a glass from the cupboard
pours half of his beer in the glass.
He hands it to me.
I drink. I take him in.
I say nothing. Because I know
he needs this. He needs me
to be silent with him, to eat
the food he has made
to accept what love
he has left to give.
To do something
anything.
The Restless Crescent 