Friday, March 12, 2010

A feeling I had twenty six years ago

Even as I write this, I'm hesitating to share something so intimate in so public a setting. Part of me thinks it's too private, part of me thinks I'm being an exhibitionist. But the truth is, I think I'm just a plain ol' narcissist and that I'm certain that everyone wants to know everything about me. Hee.

Spring is wonderful and hard for me. When the seasons change, I always feel a little blue, at least for a while. But spring is different. It's a marvelous season. But it's also the time of year that my mom died back in 1984. She was buried right around easter. So, it's this strange mix for me; I'm generally very energized by the longer days, the warmth, the beauty (as are most people), but some days this "funk" just appears. After so many years, I've finally come to understand what it's all about.

And it's OK. I mean, it really is. I think some wounds are there for a lifetime. And it's only when we let them cripple us or dictate how we live that they become an issue.

So, every now and then, I put pen to paper and let rip with a good-ol' angst-filled poem. So here it goes. Don't read this if you're in a good mood. But, hey, it makes me feel better...and that's all that matters, right? :)

Twenty Six Years

a feeling that I had

about twenty six years ago visits me

every year about this time.

as another spring brings

energy and light and rebirth

and people again start to smile,

a feeling that I had

twenty six years ago

stirs from a place that I don’t quite understand

and it wipes spring from my face

and smells and senses and blush and bloom

and a flush of warmth

and a coat of pollen

and a sweet musty scent

span twenty six years,

linked across time by a memory

so that every year,

it all feels as though

those twenty six years never passed

and that this spring bears the fruits

of the last and the last and the last

as if the spring itself never brought happiness

or life

or rebirth

to earth

and as if everyone else must feel the same as I

in what is

for me

a season of death

and the feeling I had twenty six years ago

is a scream and a wail

for a mother who left too soon

and drew her fingernails across my memory

as she slid down to death

scratching and scarring

all memory

so spring itself, you see,

is never a season of birth,

as the memory of twenty six years

coats all blooms.