Maybe this time I’ll rescue my Mother.
Pearl Harbor will just be a sleepy port of call.
Nobody came & nobody went away from home.
Nothing lost. No wedding bells.
We’ll gaze at the mist of plum blossoms
on the wide valley floor. Feed my lambs, someone
said. Someone loves like wind. No shunted hopes,
no brown uniform thrown on the bed.
His face won’t be in that photograph.
His face won’t look like mine. Nothing
gambled, lost in the high desert dust.
No frozen clothes on a winter line.
Brothers will just be brothers, won’t
go speechless in the silent light of home.
Although that one of them, he’ll still
go to Alaska on a tall sail ship.
He’ll still die, an artful youth of a man.
Some things just gotta be. Else no
wonder of clay, no sister on my desk.
Maybe Grandfather & Grandmother
will harvest ample roots on the rock-strewn
sides of farmers hills. No drought.
Maybe Mother will land covered in Spring rain.
Maybe she’ll smile, never knowing
I changed everything, including me.
Not so much revised as reposted now. Life being what it is, here is some wandering back to mother, what wants saying now and here. A life in parallel, no matter how straight or bent the lines. Allowing intention some wandering as well. What in life did or didn’t work out so much as first imagined. Spare some thought for making another possibility, what lays tucked beneath the sheets.
This being a briefer than brief history and not-history of mother and family. Microscopic thumbnails. A war that made soldiers and sailors and secretaries and post-celebratory-marriages that maybe shouldn’t have been nor parents who wanted more than received. Divorce was the word used with shame. Could have been more blessed, more easy at least.
8 thoughts on “Saving mother”
Oh those famous “what if’s”. The desire to change the story and bring about a different ending. In reality, the only thing we can truly change is our self: what we think, how we react, and the manner in which we deal with others. It might be the hardest thing to do, but it is possible. And it can only begin when we decide that we, our lives, our reality is worth that effort. And that may be the hardest, and most difficult thing we ever do. If we truly desire something different, then we ourselves must become that difference.
There are three distinct parts to every story: a beginning, a middle, and an ending. We may all begin as a result of someone else’s choices, but the rest is truly and only up to us.
You’re correct of course Elizabeth. However for me this imagining is an act of playfulness. Can there be a moment of intention to be outside the conventional perception of reality? I say yes. No moment need remain the same but can sparkle in wonder, a whole other life possibility that can be taken as kin. For me this poem is free to walk-about the world as it sees fit. And thanks for reading. Of course.
We do play. I just engaged in a similar/ dissimilar game, trying to imagine the mind of a glass mug. Of course it can’t be done, or not by me. Words make us think, give us ideas. How can we not string and restring them?
“string and restring them”, an image I adore. and a “glass mug” is more than I’d even think to consider. thanks for having a mind that always surprises me. n.
And you, my friend, are absolutely correct as well. Imagining is an act of playfulness that can alter our perceptions. It is the very root of Creativity. I believe that our differences lie in the gender roles we were trained up and groomed within. And that is a whole different discussion. I, in no way, meant to diminish what you have done here. I really like the path your imaginings took you down. The possibilities are endless and that means that change can and does come in any and all moments, if we allow it by staying open to it.
Remember the movie “Big Fish”? Like that, sort of. And ever, thanks for your thoughtfulness.
Popping over to say Merry Merry Christmas to you, Neil. I hope you resume posting soon in the New Year!
The way a fine meal hints by scent the taste that’s coming next – is how I’m learning to appreciate you. More – will find a place at the table. Not every wave is a seventh wave, but still, they find my toes, my feet.