I wish we could have rewound time and been other people. We could have been strangers having a drink in an airport bar, formed a friendship that lasted through relationships and kids. We could have been neighborhood kids who grew up together, suffered through parental rules and high school. Or maybe, just neighbors who watched out for each other, swapping stories and checking in while bringing in trash bins.
At the very least, perhaps we could have pretended to be other people for a time, for a week or two— erasing past foot prints, created new ones in some distant soil. All the while, we could have worn different faces. You could have chosen the mother’s face you’d have liked to have worn. And I could have chosen a daughter’s face that perhaps wasn’t some reminder of what you wanted to forget or ignore.
If we could have worn different faces, made new footprints in different places-- Perhaps our burdens of rage and loss and fear would have drifted away like runaway balloons at a child’s birthday party long before that day in July that haunts me still when I had to reach down to close your frightened eyes.
The words, the words-- They rattle in my head, louder than the tail of a snake, louder than the breaking of stacked billiard balls, louder than the concussing jack hammer on a city street-- too much noise to hear distinctly what must be written, what must be said, screamed into the foul fiery smoke-filled air
One word, one. Just one, larger than the others, louder— settles against my skin, a lash of fiery noise, burning, burning deep-- betrayal-- burning away tiny scars of other betrayals a lifetime ago
This wildfire of betrayal burns away soul held beliefs of common good.
A gray morning starts the day.
A light dusting of wet snow
greets me and the dogs
before my coffee and breakfast
can have a say in the matter.
And you are no longer
in this world
to see the same sky
or to visit me here.
The last twelve years
we made up for
the lost years of the forty-eight
we’ve been friends--
Our marathon talks about our kids,
our hopes and worries for them,
the birth of your grandchildren,
the death of my wife,
the blasphemous betrayal of aging--
all our griefs and our celebrations.
Sharing, as adults, the things
We could not share as kids,
how we survived the fog bank
attack of our mother’s hearts
upon our own to live our lives
in the sunlight of the earth.
You were the one to word it best-
Like the little girl with the curl
in the middle of her forehead:
When they were good,
they were very good
and when they were bad,
they were horrid.
How often, always it seems to me,
you bested me in our repartees of humor and wit,
until I did cry, Uncle, I give!
The two of us laughing,
fighting hard to catch our breath.
In the end, your body betrayed your spirit.
I would rewrite your ending if I could.
I’d write you healthy for years to come,
running and playing with your granddaughters,
seeing graduations and weddings—
Of course, selfishly,
I’d write you many visits
to see me here in this mountain paradise
of a place where I am blessed to be.
Where we’d sit—
you sipping your Jameson Irish Whiskey
and I my glass of wine,
as we laughed and teased each other
in our merciless way.
Then you’d talk of your son
and I my daughter,
what motherhood meant,
and how we survived our own mothers.
I’d write you happiness,
finding love with an Andy Garcia
look alike who would worship you.
I’d write your ending
with a pain free body,
sitting in the sun
while you watched
your great-grandchildren at play.
Finally, selfishly,
I’d rewrite feeling your absence
from this world.
My lessons in listening: To a mother’s final words— Always remember I loved you and was proud Tossed off, too rushed to leave work To get to the hospital, to see her, Always thinking of more days, time. Not thinking all I’d see, Her dead eyes.
To all my dogs– little tells Of cocked heads, whines, barks, The ways of wagging tails, To know what meant what– Hunger, pain, desire to play, A need for love or to go outside. Those I’ve always learned well.
To students, the teens I taught, A puzzle to figure of pieces and placement What each meant for each— The lift of a shoulder, how the eyes met or did not meet mine, The head upon the desk, the work done or not, The things said, not said— To figure needs- Some basic, some not so, Requiring other safety nets, Bruised and broken, Some I could help repair. I knew what to listen for, Almost by instinct, Since I had not been listened to When I was one of them.
To my child, a whirlwind of cries, Hunger, diaper, cold, hot, sick— Each cry different A knowing, animal instinct, Some primal thing beating Inside knew the way Of my infant’s need. When a teen— A different thing, A new species of need, My animal and her animal Had no common language Of smells, signals, or cries In the darkened tunnels We went through.
To my dying wife, my dying wife— So hard to listen to, to understand a language no longer including My daughter or me. Never knowing for whom The last coma spoken words– I’m sorry, so sorry— Were spoken.
Now, I learn the final lesson of listening, A lesson sixty years in the learning,
In her grandchildren, her spirit is woven– What a tapestry These children create.
The strongest fibers of her determination run In the eldest, wearing her grandmother’s face, Though she never knew her.
Threads of her courage and strength Weave into the only one who knew her, Who can remember the smell of her beef stew, As the grown child wages a battle for her life.
Yarns of responsibility and fun spin In the lone grandson, As he raises his son And forgets not how to play.
The delicate fine threads of her caring and her dreams Spin through the twins, Born too late to know her, One doing what must be done to care for others. the other creating a business of her art.
The warm, soft yarn of her love and generosity weaves through the youngest, my daughter, Born under the same December sun, As she becomes a nurse caring For babies born too early.
In my mother’s grandchildren, A tapestry of faith is woven, And I am taught DNA is more than science, Woven with soul upon Some ancient loom. This tapestry of spirit Where my mother lives still.
I know it is no big deal to many of you who use your real names on your blogs. But I have used two pen names since starting this blog shortly after the death of my wife. I was still teaching, and my daughter was still in high school. Although the LGBTQ community has made great strides in being accepted by society, there is still prejudice. Being in education, I still had to be careful. Additionally, much of my writing comes from my experiences. Hence, some of my work centers on my daughter. Therefore, I wanted to protect her privacy as well. However now that I am retired and after lengthy consideration, I have decided to dispense with the pen names I have been using. I changed the domain name a few months ago when the old domain encountered issues with being shared on Facebook. I never did figure that problem out but changing the domain which included my real surname fixed the problem. I believe it was the April Writing Prompt Challenge—I am more than Breath and Bone– from Christine Ray, Brave and Reckless.com, that provided the impetus which spurred me to use my real name. The poem that came out of responding to that prompt was a recognition of what my mother and foremothers have done for and given me. I have tried to raise my daughter to be proud of herself, her family, and her two moms. If I hide behind a pen name, am I teaching her pride? Am I doing what my mother and foremothers have done for me? If I hide behind a pen name, am I “holding up the mountains” for her as was done for me? But I needed it to be okay with her. So, I asked her how she felt about it. What if her friends stumble across some of my work? What if they saw something that was about her? She responded with complete honesty and clarity, “Well, Mom. It’s your writing. If they do, they do.” So, with that, my name is Annette Kalandros, and I will be using my real name from this point forward.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
