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.
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