She sits there just
waiting just sitting
and waiting...
She talked two lifetimes
worth in fifty years
despite his insults:
blabberpuss, motormouth,
and so on
and so on
In one ear and
out the other
she followed siren
screaming fire trucks
to their destinations
she had a drive
about being perfect
and two critical eyes:
you're not wearing that,
do you have to be such a slob?
A gifted pianist
she would yell corrections
A sharp! Or E Flat!
preparing dinner as
I practiced daily lessons
She couldn't live
with him
but she did
just as she had
with her abusive father
she couldn't live
without him
but she did
she disappeared daily
more and more in
his house long before
the home at St. John's
she held grudges
she could be kinder
to strangers than
loved ones
her letters needed
deciphering with a
fine tooth comb
to discover any warmth
more like tombs
her words
in preparation of a
vacuum into which
her life fell
she loved Frosted Flakes
W-H-A-M
quiet family walks
on Sunday afternoons
into Park Lane fields
later developed
raspberry picking for
her notorious berry pies
Swimming and
skiing keeping
her shapely and fit
her breasts shriveled under
husband's insults
Laundry, vacuuming,
cleaning was laborious
and we heard the
laments: the victim,
the oppressed, the
creative juices eeked
out of her mundane
existence, reduced to
conversations with Rose,
coffee with Shirley,
or Sally
not the life she envisioned
as a promising young
musician meeting a
divorced dapper doctor
at the ripe age of 21
She fought the move to
the farm in Macedon
much like she fought
the alcoholic husband or
the disappointment of
her children, or the
onslaught of a disease
with a german name
which would rob her
of her august years
not even able to protest
she slipped beneath
the surface of ice
into an abyss
I cannot comprehend
I did not know her
I never really knew her
no
I never knew her
although I am her
we are all her
in life, and in death
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Regarding Kay
by Robert Vaughan
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Wonderful stuff, Robert and congrats on being the 100th publication here. Nice to be reading you here and other sites.
ReplyDeleteYes. Your words are like flashcards waved before my face, forcing me to confront memories I've tried to forget. But here they are in black and yellow, forever preserved for all to read and judge. Families and marriages are never perfect. Sadly, our mother chose to lose her voice long before her illness robbed her of it. I like to pretend that if events had been different, she might have changed that and enjoyed her "August years." Alas, it was not so. Your words capture her essence with such poignancy that I could almost swear I wrote them myself. Good job, brother, for I know and share the cost. I love you.
ReplyDeleteAs I knew her and know her. I know her in my own mother I am uplifted but so sad. I know the can't live with, can't live without...so fucked up. You are strong and brave and I love this piece maybe more than any other to date.
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