April 12, 2011
When I was reading all the things you posted on Twitter, Myspace and Facebook, I came across some lists you made. One of the things you wanted was for someone to write you a love song. It was such a sweet thing to ask. But even now, it is a wish I cannot grant. Though I made sure you learned to play an instrument, the violin, I never learned to read music. I always had to sing along.
In high school I wrote poetry. I wrote well enough to get published in some anthologies, though I could not tell you which ones. I sold a poem once to the Tacoma
After you died, after I could pull myself out from under the down comforter long enough to take a bath, I began to listen to the words that formed. I tried to write them down, but tears turned them into rivers of ink I could not read. Now, the tears come less frequently, I cannot stop the flow of words. I write everywhere and race to find pen and paper to capture thoughts. Even though I cannot write you a love song, I wrote you a poem.
For Andrea on Her 29th Birthday
Your letterman jacket
hangs limply
on my office chair
I eat from pink chopsticks
painted with dogwood blossoms
you purchased in Shanghai
the Blessed Virgin oil
you bought in Italy
I found rolled up in a cardboard tube
hangs framed now
above my desk
your baby shoes
scuffed from crawling
sit next to a framed picture of you
learning how to surf.
I cannot bend to this
there is no truth here I want to know
on my knees
I beat bare earth
demanding back
what was never mine
to keep.
Are you afraid?
I am.
Do you miss me there?
I miss you here.
I gather all I am
ever was
I draw from trees
grass, sky
call out your name
Do you call out to me?
I catch glimpses
chase you
look for you in dreams.
I hear music now
I am carried away on the notes
of a violin
haunting me
the melody brings me back again
to the whole of it
this world without you.
Love you--Mom
