Water Under The Bridge

I am going to tread on water here, most definitely not walk on it, I'd sink like a rock. But I decided not to get on social media on September 11th. I tire of endless status remarks about what happened that day 12 years ago. Mainly because my daughter passed away a year earlier. When it all took place on television and in NYC I was numb. I could not even feel sympathy, sure I was not happy about it, but as I found out from others who suffered losing a loved one (a child especially) they said the same thing.

A poem came out in the process of meeting others who shared watching television and how we felt that day and days, years afterward. Now I am sure the families of those lost can relate when they also watch a life and death situation on the news. It's just awful, the worst feeling to lose someone you love. I wonder how many have lost a child on Sept 11th and cannot cope period. PTSD can take its toll.

Losing a child might seem harder, but I respect those who have lost period.

Twin Tower I.

Many of us sat and watched from the couch

when one by one NYC twin towers

were hit by planes, taken by terrorists.

People began jumping from windows, but

still numb from my own explosion of bad news

a world no longer spinning with life-

I wanted to dive into the screen

pull each one back into their prospective place

discuss how sad life had gotten

how tiny hearts wrap you up

hold you hostage as their disease squeezes

that terror of not knowing the end date.

Fourteen years earlier I sat in a similar place

and watched a space shuttle blow up

holding my baby- hoping those who died

their loved ones would be okay

walking a road of grief no one is prepared for

as new life is celebrated.

There is a II, but it will remain in my m/s until I publish.

PS- I stole this title from a beautiful poet KMPoetry, my apologies and go check out her site!
Kara M Poetry 

July...

is the month heat takes hold
sweeping down
across Continental Divides
things begin to die

things are reborn
       in time
hopes take flight
hanging on
the tiniest of threads
cottonwoods shake
from the slightest breeze
sending catskin
        to dance

weeping willow hanging so dread
wrapping those lost in its arms

a mother misses
        more ground
than time left 
faces seem blank
        as eyes close to dream
as small hands reach
for new life
on winds of chance.


Anelisa Diane Dillion
March 1st, 1986 - July 14th, 2000

She was my chance to dance on the stage of beauty...

(BTW, this poem is evolving over the course of days; until Saturday, then I move on. Moving on is what it's all about in healing.)

James father adored her...my parents, already heavily aging from a rough life really had little time (also, their own request) with her. It was too emotional for my mother with her mental illness to handle the idea her granddaughter was not going to live with heart disease. Anelisa was like a porcelain doll until the age of five, after her second and third surgery, Dr. Nikado had her more oxygen to grow with the new shunts; it allowed her to walk and explore more. 

We take breathing for granted...having Asthma all my life and my own heart disease, I never will.

The tale of the purse...she carried one everywhere she went, and would ask me for lipstick so she would have something in there. At this time she had grown in height, but her body was still somewhat baby like in form. I miss her hugs...

Today

I have stared at this blank screen for two days, and ghosts just fill it's space with brief moments of familiarity

My words are scattered about the pastures I keep, they cannot be wrangled no matter how I hard I try to swing the rope out in a circular movement

The faces of the innocent only comfort me for a short while, a child's life is trapped between a time continuum, but can never be contained as it seeps slowly out into blank space

Not a day goes by I do not think of my mother, my grandmothers, my daughter, my friends I have lost to some disease, or simply times final hour

Saturday morning I got some sleep in spite of our coughing from bronchitis, and felt halfway decent

Only to find out news was kept from me for obvious reason- Lisa has less than a year to live. Her pancreas is eaten up with cancer, and she is younger than me

Joe will share in this aching pain of loss that goes hand in hand with a hideous headless demon we call death

Have my words hidden in the pot holes of happiness, where the demon rears its ugly head to remind us we are merely temporary gardeners over seeing beauty bloom in the field one season at a time

White is the darkest color I have ever seen- I wonder what color will I find here tomorrow

Muse Monday 20- Mixed Media Garden

Landmine

Why would a mother who lost
her first seed, feeding off genetic strength

a spring bud busted through hard ground-
the patch of un-kept soil hanging out

next to the redneck projects where self doubt
potential is shot directly into the veins

with silver bullet tongues- place a masterpiece
self portrait of her angel over the porcelain structure

Dressed in transparent pinks, orange, and beige
shroud; only the very observant will reflect

a presence just above the out of date vanity cabinet;
sitting over the hand sanitizer, where just to the right

behind one more jewel, antiquity find of simplistic wood
framed mirror holding up silk and plastic bouquet

of spring flowers. Never faded by artificial light
or snarky looks, just part of a shrine,

five by seven room reminding a renter of where she came,
what she is capable of, and what life holds no matter

what was plucked- beauty no longer seen to the naked eye
fills more than just a small space, but has to walk

out the door- time after time, and plant a seed
in another lonely plot of ground

watered by much needed tears from every passerby.

Dear John Letter

Dear John,

I know it was hard for me to ask you to play the piano at Anelisa's memorial; it was hard for me to be there. I have wanted to say something to you...it has taken so long to say these things to you since we last parted, and that I hope you realize what you did for me.

You gave me a gift that I was not able to open until this year. The gift has sat in the back of my mind for almost ten years before it was ready to play out in reality. You gave yourself, your time at the piano to teach a student out of love. She loved you, and there was never any jealousy on my part in the time spent when we would come over. I enjoyed working for you, helping keep your office going while you took Ane and Aaron on runs.

I also wanted you to know that since Aaron had no interest in keeping the sheet music, so I passed it on to my clients son recently. He has been taking piano lessons, and excels in composing his own beautiful work. Rahual may not understand what this piece means to me, but maybe one day he will listen to the words and think of his own sister who passed only just a year ago of a similar disease as my own child. Helping take care of her for three years as I cooked for their family was implementable in my healing.

Let me tell you how much you still mean to me after all these years. Ane loved her uncle, and there was no other. She loved the 'Titantic' move, and Leonardo- God was she boy crazy! If she were around today, she might not think he is so cute!

Our memories shared of her zest for life, and her will to go on, will ring out in our hearts for ever.

Love,

Elizabeth

Waiting

Thirty five thousand, seventeen days
have passed since a world changed, a

plate of cheese fighting the elements, moved
to a heavier plate. The pretty orange one

whose chip became a crack, left
broken lying next to unwashed

shriveling grapes on un-kept counter
while worms eat through to the core of

waiting granny smith apples in a dusty
fruit basket: once, shiny and green before

decay and gray matter took over. There
is a chance life can be revived with tears

life springs running over the edge of vessels
here and there on the floor-

a house; a home, left to nature, to chance
in torrential storms, or over flow-

of a sink full of dirty dishes
sitting under a ticking clock

hanging next to this years calendar.

© E Stelling

Difficulties mastered are opportunities won- Winston Churchill