I may have, maybe not, mentioned when meeting a man in Boston, Hal Sirowitz, he reminded me of my dad, my dad's illness- Parkinson's. I realized afterward, when arriving at the apartment exhausted from the bustling all day, I had never grieved for my parents. They died soon after Anelisa did, and I miss them. I don't miss the bull-honky that went with their habitual fighting, a result from his snarky and mean comments toward my mother, maybe because he stopped drinking and smoking all the years before.
So, I have been trying to mourn. Remember them, and honor them. The one problem I have is, as usual the daughter remembers her father in a more complimentary light. My mother was riddled with her own problems, and I guess not wanting to remember her in such a depressed state, as she was always in, I write more about Daddy.
I also found out today, a very good family friend is dying from ovarian cancer, she already battles an immune disease, and it will be a great loss to my husbands step mom, as it is her best friend.
I am taking a poetry class, and part of that class we have to read so many poems a day, analyze them, and then writer our own version or inspired versions of poetry. Send them to the teacher and work shop them as a class. So here is something I wrote today...
On The Water’s
Edge
I.
Wriggling
in the boat’s front seat
more
than the container of bait worms
sitting
in the hot sun in fake earth
or
on the hook as my fingers guide.
We
head into a group of bare trees;
jumping
daddy long leg spiders run
in
opposite directions, away from us.
Bending
down into the floor I escape
the
freakish encounter.
The
boat still rocks back and forth
daddy
is already anxious for a cigarette
to
clean off the trout lines
his
voice cracks telling me to sit still.
He
took me over the other siblings,
I
know this because he often bragged
about
how quiet and like him his
second
born is, and does so in whispers
so
the others don’t hear.
Uncles
tell me how I favor his mother
someone
he misses greatly, and often
we
swing by her house
for
a surprise visit.
Looking
over the boats edge,
my
chin lodged over the side
near
the clear fresh water, observing
big
fish going after bugs, and smaller fish
I
wish to follow them into the
cool
depths— imagining
they
speak in soft tones,
letting
out bubble responses,
flipping
at a moment’s notice,
turning,
toward other rewards.
‘The
Incredible Mr. Limpet’
swims
by losing his derby
and
in that Don Knott voice in my head
squeals
out a funny joke toward me.
I
laugh out loud, risking wrath.
My
father has already started the engine
with
a smile, because many fish
gave
up life with little fight today
and
he has bigger things to fry.
The Bigger Catch
Got Away
II.
I
long to feel that water’s edge
to
see my father look from the shadows
into
the sunlight, and recognize me.
His
yellowing undershirt pops up
inches
above his blue work shirts
embroidered
with his middle name Glen.
On
the birth certificate it is spelled
with
two n’s, but he always thought
that
was the Scottish version of
the
female persuasion.
Something
he likes best, over
fishing,
beer, and a good barbeque
sandwich.
Standing
over the grill on Sunday’s
you
can smell a mix of flesh cooking;
either
hamburgers, hot dogs, cheap steaks,
and
often fresh fish he caught
the
day before.
He’s
there dressed in his Bermuda shorts
flexing
his red neck tanned arms at
the
female guests waiting and giggling
behind
the mirrored patio door.
Smoke
rises from the neighbor’s patio
as
I float in my adult home swimming pool
next
door, drowsy, but waking from a quick nap.
I
feel the burn from the suns hot rays
on
my shoulders, my straps pulled down
like
when I was a teenage girl
trying
to slip out of the house
in
my hand-me-down bikini
with
the padded bra.
Daddy
caught me on the patio just
as
the dogs began fighting next to me
and
warned me not to wear it in public.
Closing
my eyes again, my father quickly lets go
of
anger; smiling back at me as he drifts off
in
the green flat bottom boat. It is growing dark,
and he is alone on the old lake.
I
swim out to him, pulling on the side, I can
almost
feel small fish nibble on my toes,
bull
frogs are peeping up from the rocks, I shriek
and
can swear he says ‘there will be other days’.
I also have a new poem up over at Elizabeth Akin Stelling, and this poem may or may not be removed, if it is published it will be in my own book, one to be published this year. - E