I drove up their driveway this week
In a closet of memory that's been kept shut
Grief opened the door to risk a peek
I saw sun bouncing off fresh blacktop
Showing up in our old Pontiac station wagon
My mom and us three kids
That driveway meant salvation
We would run out, estatic for a place
A refuge and hole to burrow and be
The sunporch, jujubee's, cookie jar and old cast iron sewing table
Granny's antique doll, jewelry and nail polish, the shed and PaPa's creek and garden
All signposts of relief
A brief layover in a village void of
Alcohol
I never knew until now that they saved my life
Taking naps with PaPa
The smell of his sweater as I lay my cheek on his chest
The touch and feel of a Father
356-5429
A number not dialed in over twenty years
It's retrieval so instinctual
Like milk in it's place on the fridge door
Oh, to brush now finger over numbers and press down...
I'd tell you thank you
PaPa, for the quarters and dollars and trips to the park
For Yankee Doodle Dandy
For your guardian eyes, watching and perpetually pacing and tracing our footsteps through play
I'd hear your stories and ask and listen more
Granny, you birthed a stillborn son and buried a daughter
Cathy was her name
Your childhood had you webbed in it's own alcohol
Nightmare
Did you know you could name your son and grieve his death?
Or was that sorrow shoved down too in a pit named forgotten and no more?
I see why the yarn of control had you wound up in such a tight ball
I'd want to gently snip through those stitches of a heart so bound and sewn in pain
And allow the space for the beat to begin it's pulse again
You called me your angel
I think you were mine
And, I would give anything to drive up again down that winding road
That led to your house
On Brainard Street
The Pool Party
Jim, Megan, Eli, Esther, Eden and Olive
4 comments:
Wow, Megan. I can barely see due to tears in my eyes. You are such an amazing writer, and an even more amazing person.
Not many people can or will understand this poem - or will they? You bring to light all the wonderful memories of things long hidden in a deep place. Their home was our refuge and a place of safety in the tornado. I remember crying and begging to stay for days on end. I remember bringing Stella to meet Granny while she was living in Burgess Square, she was close to death and as she looked at Stella, she begged me to not let her die. I told her I would keep her safe and she just kept saying, "please don't put her in a coffin". I silently cried as I kept telling her that Stella would be safe and live. All her emotions, feelings, memories and fears were surfacing from long ago about Cathy and her son. It was something that I wish to never know. The life of a woman who could never deal with what was on the horizon but shoved things in deep places only to surface when death was near. Thanks for this beautiful poem, Megs. xoxo Heidi
PS... have I ever showed you the poem I wrote for Granny and gave her as a gift about 12 years ago? I got it back when she passed away... still in it's frame.
heids
Megan, that is beautiful. You really took us there to those wonderful, hard places. I loved it.
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