I sent my mom this poem the other day:
The house smells like homemade chicken soup
Soup we will not eat because there is only two of us and one is thirty pounds and eats like a bird and the other one is grieving too much to eat much of anything
A giant vat of soup sits on the stove abandoned and alone
It was the making of it that made sense
Making sense of being two instead of three
I smell feet
Old rag moldy smell
I hate that smell
I blissed out for a moment there. Not from the smell. Of gym socks and soup.
But from finally coming down off an anxiety run that mutated into depression at the very end
A wet wool blanket
Heavy I can’t lift it I can’t get out from under it I just want to sleep
I prefer anxiety
At least, I can get shit done that way
Depression smothers snuffs out
I run to you
Is home. Is not ever was.
What was? Home.
In my head.
Stop the chattering. Incessant. Neverending. Monkey-fucking mind.
Wah wah wah wah
I want to hold your hand
Kiss your fingertips silly
Tiny knuckles rap on the concrete. Harsh. Ouch. She is so little.
My little one.
I love her more than anything.
Fear I don’t deserve this kind of love. Such sweetness. Such wonder and innocence. I love her smell. She smells like sunrise. And all things good.
I can’t stop. I am on a roll. Me, thinks. Thinking gets me into trouble most of the time. Rationalizing, justifying, figuring it all out.
I am tied up in knots
There is a knot in my stomach
Grey prickly matter undulating high up into my solar plexus
Sharp pain that feels like a knife pushed into the hilt and out my back
But is only a sadistic form of gas
I can’t fart the pain away
Farting is funny
I love when my daughter farts, so loud for such a dainty thing
We all used to laugh the three of us at her farts all of our farts
A farting family we were
What kind of family are we now?
History aside, what kind of family do I want to create? For her? For me?
Impressed, depressingly so, at times, of my selfishness, I hope to be a better example for her, than I am, for me.
I can’t give you what I don’t have. I can’t give it away. I wish I could. I wish I had it. I don’t.
I loved his starry eyes in that photo. Of the three of us. I loved the we.
He was the best sex I ever had. The best lover. A love-child, without a doubt.
We had a contract between us that was made up of more than a pen, ink and paper.
She was the glue. I thought I was stuck to you.
He blamed my anxiety.
Forgive my anxiety. Forgive me for it. It does to me what it wants. But I am working on it while it works on me.
Hopefully, the next time, whoever he is, will be more forgiving.
While the soup simmers away.
I love this quote I just read in a book called The Book of Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu
“Our suffering, our pain, and our losses have the power to transform us. It does not always feel just, nor is it easy, but we have seen that, with time, great good can come from great sorrow.”