Showing posts with label denise. Show all posts

You would have been 65 today

I attended your last birthday party.
I smelled the sulfuric remnant from the last candle you ever blew out.

The end was near, we all knew it; we all wanted it by then:
Your daughter, your then-husband, your friend who brought cake, me.
You didn't want the fuss, but somehow even with a goddamnedtube down your throat,
you accepted flowers and attention and a cake (what the fuck happened to that cake, a cake you would never eat)
with poise.

That same poise erects your daughter's spine.
Bone and tissue made more by
Your spirit, a rod shooting upward from her pelvis to her third eye.





You'd love your life right now, had you been able to cheat death.
You have two born grandchildren,
Both wild and chubby and winsome.

You would be free from any man
Full of serpentine lies and any woman
low with pitiful betrayals.
But then again,
You already are.


What were your other birthday celebrations like?
I suspect you always disliked fuss.
But eyes sit on your shoulders as naturally as your freckles did.
You feel them, but they don't bother you.

Did you plan an epic 65th journey? Europe with Jessica? Hawaii with Joshua? The beach with your sisters?

I can smell the Chardonnay swirling in your glass.
Only last night I began to chop vegetables for dinner and heard you scolding me
To pour a glass first.
Somehow making an act intended for the nourishment of others
an act also intended to nourish me.
As if to say, I am here too! amidst all the hunger.
Am I saying it to me?
Or are you? Are you here?

I can see the mischievous secret in your sideways glances,
Always somehow knowing something no one else in the room knew.
I can see your half smile and mauve Estee Lauder lipstick.
I admire the elegant click clack of always manicured, rose-colored nails.
The skin that had begun to loosen around the knuckles and veins.

There's something I've been meaning to bring up with you, the next time
you came around.
There was a baton-passing we never discussed.

Sure, you always accepted me, but there was an initial distance.
A cautious, aloof detachment
while you sized up my intentions with your firstborn.
I'm not sure when we switched over
Or even if we really have.
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose heart pumps cool water to quell her soul's inflammation)
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose wings flap violently to conjure the wind so she can take off )
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose hands are tied behind backs, watching her punch and be punched)
(Is it me or is it you inside of me whose knife caresses the skin of those who lied to us all)

I don't appreciate the helplessness, thank you very much.
I have enough of my own to deal with.
I don't need yours too.

Now that I think of it,
I wonder.
Where did all your feelings go? Like your ashes, were they also unceremoniously tossed into the ocean?



What happened to the time to enjoy it.
I'm still not over the cheat of it.
But this is about your birthday.

So we will gather, les femmes.
We will pour in your name,
Today, when you would have been 65.

-crm
death denise jessica
Share:

The End of an Era


It's officially over.  I've watched all the Star Trek TV there is to watch, save for a few gaps to fill in (3-5 episodes in TOS and the first three seasons of Voyager).  Last night, we finished Enterprise and I may have cried.  Star Trek is so much more than I thought it was, and it has become vastly more meaningful to me than I ever imagined.  For the future vision of humanity birthed in the creative mind of Gene Roddenberry, for the understanding of who we are,  and for what we value and the impossible decisions we have to make. In a myriad of lessons I learned through watching ST, one pervades my thoughts today.  And I have enough artist friends to know that they need to hear this.

Les Artistes,
You can change the world with one vision.
-mme.


One story, one painting, one song, one design, one photograph, one invention.
There's something there just terrifically inspiring.





I also sense my time as a stay-at-home-mom (SAHM) is nearing its end.  I've been job hunting/applying/interviewing for a year, as it was never "the plan" to stay home with Bowie.  However, it's been wonderful and I feel terribly lucky.  Momentum has been building the last 6 weeks with several interviews and leads.  Additionally, I am working hard to get a freelance technical writing career underway.  I am midway through my first assignment, and while I underestimated how challenging it would be, I also feel thrilled to be learning so much...not to mention the much-needed respite from motherhood brain.

Did you know that the majority of women report significant drops in self-confidence when they became SAHMs.  It makes perfect sense to me; it's such a different skill set, raising kids versus out-of-home work.  Both are grueling, but I am one of those women who needs to know she is good for something other than:

  1. Wiping little faces 4-8x/day.
  2. Refilling the cat's water.
  3. Laundering vestments.
  4. Vacuuming our annoyingly show-everything carpet.
  5. Meal planning, shopping, cooking, and dishes. 
  6. Try to be aware of gender biases I might unconsciously be communicating.  
  7. Arranging play-dates.
  8. Researching best practices for discipline - making sure food habits, manners, values, behaviors, and language all align with our principles while simultaneously full well knowing that she's going to be who she is no matter what.  Even IF I take pains to introduce her to an array of foods, she may not be an exotic eater.  Little battles we must approach, fight, and then ultimately let go of.  Impossible.
  9. Think about future schools.
  10. Help herself discover the world and others safely.
  11. Observe her without labeling and limiting her.
  12. Keep her safe, but let her take risks.
  13. Teach her to communicate well, and at her pace.
  14. Knowing her pace!
  15. Allow her to experience the full range of her emotions without always trying to comfort or distract her from them.
  16. Clip her fingernails.
Of course the list could go on and on, just like any job description: you are hired for one thing and end up performing a myriad of additional, unpredictable duties.  





So I am busy now, trying to arrange babysitting for job interviews and writing deadlines...not to mention prepping for interviews, applying for jobs, and teaching myself how to run my own business AND learn the business.  I told a friend last night over wine, "I feel like taffy.  Pulled in every direction." 




In other things coming to an end, my baby is nearly gone.  She toddles about the house in her Frankenstein way and her interest now lies ONLY in what I am doing at that moment.  She demands something new from me every day, but where once I could honestly say that I didn't enjoy the work ( I feel obliged to present a whole, honest picture of my motherhood experience), I now feel the pleasure of the age she is at.  It's a scrumptious stage, despite an extra dose of spicy behavior the last few weeks (MOLARS?!).  She's a brilliant baby who would do nothing outside of eating, reading books, tinkering with electronics, and being outside. Kind, patient, sweet, snugly and painfully curious - she's mine and I adore her.  

But every day, I walk into her room and this CHILD pops up out of the crib with her big head and adult-like expressions and speech. "You look different than yesterday," I tell her.  She grins toothily and reaches up to me. It's happening too fast; I consciously make myself enjoy it.




Last week, Kelly hosted a "Dia De Lost Muertos" party.  That morning, I was in my writer's workshop and we were instructed to write on "honoring the dead."  I always collect leaves on my way to class to stick into the pages of my notebook.  I wrote Denise's name on one of those leafs and from that moment on, I was thinking of her, pondering her absence, mourning Jessica's unnameable, repetitive loss in her mother...and that evening, poured her a glass of Chardonnay and lit a candle.  I placed her mother's ring by it.  I also brought a picture of Sylvia Plath and some soap - as is tradition...so the dead can clean themselves from their journey.





Despite its macabre reputation, DDLM is actually a celebration of life.  To remind us that the dead are alive and well with us, that they are happy, that they are to be remembered. 



The leaves are ending.  The stupid wind just blew them all away.  It's really the saddest thing to happen to me in a while.  The cosmic plates are shifting, the terroir is crumbling from tremors, and the chill of winter begins.  May we all be ready.

Amen,
Bowie denise dia de los muertos
Share:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)