Rock-Paper-Scissors

I.      
I can compose no verse for you,          
even 38 years after you’ve gone.    
       
Father’s was easy, dropped from          
my mind as the IV into his collapsed          
vein the rainy night his spirit passed.        
And, even though you suffered as          
much as he physically, maybe more –          
I don’t remember that part of you.        
         
I remember the cruelty of your          
efforts to dig out tiny bits of belief          
hidden in the dirty fingernail beds          
of a dreaming child, drawing blood  
to ensure you’d gone deep enough  
to get them while no one looked.        
         
II.          
When remembering the 18 years        
I was with you, or, you with me,          
there was no tender touch;          
I remember the hard bite of your          
teeth and slicing words  
meant to undermine any          
stability and jealousy of affection          
afforded me by a father you          
demanded I hate  
because of your personal wants.  
         
Yet, there must be something,        
some form of seed waiting to        
manifest growth, some dormant        
pod ready to face the light, stick        
its head out of the ground        
taste rain unfiltered by mud        
and bloom into its destiny.          
         
III.        
For 38 years I have searched  
as an archaeologist for your verse;        
the one that would honor your          
life as my father’s did.  
 
I have found no clay tablet  
with an inscription bearing clues;          
I’ve discovered no remnant          
of your love or our bond.          
         
I did, however, uncover bone          
and a rock different from the rest         
so saved it. Took it home to clean.            
 
It split in half when dropped,  
revealing a multifaceted heart  
constantly changing in light.          
         
As I watched it spin, I realized          
a verse isn’t what you’d really want.          
 
What you’d really want is for me        
to understand you did the best          
you could according to our contract,        
and loved the only way you knew          
in the light of your short life.            
         
I learned from this to love more        
than the ability to love knew;
to hold onto that gift no matter what.
 
But, the ability to be loved          
was lost somewhere in the shadows        
of development, of self-defense          
and an anti-trust amendment          
instantly activated by dishonesty;         
 
lost somewhere in the fact that        
I never hated you, nor thought to        
in my rock-paper-scissors choice.       
         
IV.        
I am not ashamed of being half.          
 
Of the halves I’d choose to love        
than be loved as a narcissist          
with nothing to give.  
 
Nor do I regret the loss despite          
the pain of absence.  
We cannot love who we do not know
and we cannot know who is          
afraid to tell the truth for fear          
of not being loved for themselves.  
         
That’s one belief that was deep,        
too deep to scrape or dig out.        
         
The door is closing on many things, Mother; I must admit I’m glad.        
I’m tired of looking  
and ready to get on with life.  
Though I wish things could be different.  
 
So, I’ll pack my tools in the aged shed  
of our history, dig no more for you.  
I’ll forgo the verse; instead, grant your memory
understanding and forgiveness
that it rest in peace.
        
And, in honor of your life, believe  
in love despite any circumstance.          
         
V.        
When your great-grandson asks          
(as he does when angry with a friend  
or family member) how can I not “hate”  
a “bad meanie-head”?          
 
I smile and gently say, “Oh Sweetie…        
         
“Your great-grandmother taught me        
to overcome that when I was your age.”        
~