The pedal creaks when I play
the old ship’s tarred wooden planks stretched against the water
Something sad like moonlight sonata that he played
from a perfect copy of mozart’s.
Tanned hands didn’t dance across the keys like my mothers did
flitting & jumping.
His fingers pressed each note and moved on
to quickly return and comfort
the ones he’d only just left behind.
I’m struggling to remember notes & lines that used to fill my head.
Now I concentrate to bring my hands to make each sound.
To hear my piano teachers disapproving voice
who I so wanted to prove wrong.
I never saw either of them again
My grandfather had a stroke during the year we had run away again.
Flying back from Jamaica with only my mother,
who had come to claim me.
My last memory of him
he’s being led
down the long hallway,
past the piano
with an old man’s shuffling gait.
I was afraid to reach out to him.
His hands half curled,
The pedal creaks when I play
” In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe” ~ Carl Sagan
” pie is super yummy” ~ eli - age 3
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel” ~Maya Angelou"
Definition of MONSTER1a : an animal or plant of abnormal form or structure b : one who deviates from normal or acceptable behavior or character 2 : a threatening force 3a : an animal of strange or terrifying shape b : one unusually large for its kind 4 : something monstrous; especially : a person of unnatural or extreme ugliness, deformity, wickedness, or cruelty 5 : one that is highly successful
monsters can be overt or subtle… sometimes they are that toxic relative that always asks you when you’re getting your life together, the suicide of a good friend, your regrets, you worries, your ex-boy/girlfriend, the darkness at the end of a fitful night, loneliness, grief, bills you can’t pay, dreams you can’t find.
everyone on facebook has posted
about missing their mom today
many of them gone from this world
some just far away from home
my mother is still living
but I’m not missing her today
for those of us whose mothers are
it’s hard being between the two worlds
She’s somewhere lost
lost in her anger
in dieing alone
and I’m left with all these messages about missing
and all I miss is what I never had
what I now am to 3 wonderful souls
and that in between place of
and nobody gets it
nobody know how hard today actually is
for those of us who don’t get the sympathy that the survivors of the dead are rendered
we don’t get any words of comfort
any words at all
there’s no good way to come out and say “I’m sorry your mother is insane/drunk/angry/unsafe”
but she is
and the one who raised me is dead…but grandmother’s don’t count
on mother’s day I’ve been told.
and neither does my mom
She kept repeating it
At least once a month
“she’ll be so pretty when she grows up”
I looked nothing like my gypsy mother with her olive skin & green eyes, long hair bleached blond to match her Danish father’s.
I looked French like my father, not like her or her people
Like a man who left her after giving me that out of place southern name that gave me nothing
but teasing in the towns we moved to
I’d wake up every morning & hurriedly check the mirror to see if I’d grown pretty in the night…
never did change my dark brown eyes
never did change my full lips
never changed into pretty
She always spoke it with such longing
and she’d take a long drag off her expensive cigarette.
And I’d wait