Snapshots of Memory and the Stories They Tell

Poetry

Hello Beautiful Heart,

I hope this letter finds you well! This past week has seen me on my second, and more powerful round, of antibiotics as it appears my sinusitis is antibiotic resistant.

I was so wiped out, I did no writing at all this week, not even to touch up the draft I had written for the next installment of Eyes Wide Open. That will have to wait another week.

I feel a little better tonight, enough to pick up a poem I had started a while ago. Finding a photo of my mother, holding me as an infant, inspired me to work with it some more.

My thoughts have been going to my mother lately. It makes sense, as there’s no way I can look at my father and his influence on my creative process, without looking at my mother. She is the one who introduced me to the power and magic of the creative process.

Before my father snatched up my singing to serve his ego, my mother had bought a piano with the money she saved cleaning houses. She taught me how to read music and play. Before she shared the piano with me, she embraced her own art, late into the night, painting her “goddesses” in water color.

I hope, in reading this poem, you will see a bit of what I saw when I discovered this picture of us. That even in some of our more painful memories, something beautiful can be, unexpectedly, found.

My mother holding me and smiling at the camera, her eyes soft and happiness on her face.

---

I.
I wonder 
Did you ever look at me
the way you looked into the camera?
I wish I could remember

II.
I didn’t see you.
How can we live in the same house
and never bump into each other?

III.
On the bridge of our noses, he placed little glasses 
to see you through his eyes
like you were something hard to bring into focus

If only we knew how to smash those glasses
we would have seen your beautiful 
unfiltered self

Then maybe, you could have seen it too. 

IV.
Glass cuts
When our fingers bled, 
sometimes, you would blow on them gently,
  “Foo foo”
you would breath-say
and magically make the pain 
go away

V.
He laughed 
at your accent
your broken speech 
your struggle to speak
as if those things
meant you had nothing 
worthwhile to say 

we laughed too

VI.
I had a right to know you. 

VII.
I lost you
when you lost your self
I lost my self
when I found you 
and took you in
as the daughter and 
I
became the mother 

He was fine with this.
I was already his surrogate girlfriend.

VIII.
I’m okay, Mama.

IX.
I’m not okay.
Where the fuck were you? 

X
You taught me the spell
in your book of shadows
disguised as water colored canvases
You showed me where
the getaway car was 
when you sat me down at the piano
It saved my life
     you saved my life
         we just couldn't save each other

XI.
I’m tired, I say
I have two kids, 
a baby grows inside me
Let me be your daughter
    not caregiver,
         errand runner, 
               chore-doing 
                    dream-fulfilling vindicator
Let me spend time with you
Let me 
sit 
down

Tell me your stories

You get in bed
You turn your back to me
I bend down to kiss you
You lift your chin, 
turn your face away, 
I catch a corner of your high 
cheekbone
It cuts me

I’ll see you tomorrow…

And then you died
Just like that 

“You’re kidding!” I say, the next morning
to the nurse who tells me, 
"Massive stroke in her sleep". 

God, Mama, you could have just said no.

XII.
Sometimes, tears take 26 years to fall 
I don't know which hurts more
that you died
or that you died pissed at me

XIII. 
You'd be mortified to know
I'm writing this
Not what you had in mind, I’m sure,
when you said I should tell 
your story to the world

XIV.
It’s my story too.

XV.
Seeing you look into the camera
holding me
I tell myself the happiness on your face 
and in your eyes
is because of me
I think it's true
but I think I look sad
I can't stop looking at this picture
If you were alive today,
Mama,
you would see 
I still want to love you

Question: Do you have a snapshot memory that carries layers of story behind it? Or a poem that reflects a moment in your life? Ambivalence is a complicated thing. So many ways to feel it and explore it. This or anything else you'd like to say. I'm willing to hold the space. ❤️

I think I’m going to use each stanza as a prompt to freewrite the stories behind it. And maybe go through some more pictures. If you’d like to participate in co-creating and maybe sharing some work together, let me know. It might be fun to try this kind of structure in poetry as freewriting-prompt together, too. Just tossing out some ideas.

From my heart to yours,

Demian Elaine’ Yumei~Silent No More