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Processing: Journal Collection - Exhibit E
I went to immortalise the woman
with thoughtful words
some she deserved, with heart
cupped in hands behind them
almost made it before the third line
where I dived off
into tedious grievances
family history --
to contrast her character
with his was the goal
but it just went on
about my little brother
my grandfather’s assholery
my mom as a victim of her upbringing
in the face
of verbal assault on her young son
my rage over it all
how my grandmother
had stood where I'd wanted to at 16
and how I was glad the man died first
before I poisoned his peanut brittle
was nothing of what she deserved
selfish venting under a smog of grief
bundling any possible negative experience
relating to her
[but not about her]
into a parcel tied rough shut with the twine
of my underlying guilt
for not standing tough enough then
for not being there now
she was always the hero
I did manage to transition
into what we’d had in common
how I was like her and proud to be
her love of written word, her grace
on both sides of winning
her live-n-let-lives and
treat-your-neighbours-as-yourselves
ringing through my grown-up philosophy
even after dropping then dragging
my religion along
like public loo shoe roll
--
I will write her with clarity
ideally in a tone that grasps
the force of gentle earth she was
but today
I want to sit quiet in her kitchen
while she opens the letter I sent last week
with the opener she keeps
on the table in a stand
watch her eyes squint hard, but happy
going through photos I picked
of the kids, for her
I’d stick them up on her weird green fridge
like she’d ask me to
and we’d have hot chocolate
over her 16th lifetime attempt
to teach me this goddamned game of cards
we would talk about how
her operation went fine
I would ask
what she wants for her birthday soon
she would tell me
nothing
with thoughtful words
some she deserved, with heart
cupped in hands behind them
almost made it before the third line
where I dived off
into tedious grievances
family history --
to contrast her character
with his was the goal
but it just went on
about my little brother
my grandfather’s assholery
my mom as a victim of her upbringing
in the face
of verbal assault on her young son
my rage over it all
how my grandmother
had stood where I'd wanted to at 16
and how I was glad the man died first
before I poisoned his peanut brittle
was nothing of what she deserved
selfish venting under a smog of grief
bundling any possible negative experience
relating to her
[but not about her]
into a parcel tied rough shut with the twine
of my underlying guilt
for not standing tough enough then
for not being there now
she was always the hero
I did manage to transition
into what we’d had in common
how I was like her and proud to be
her love of written word, her grace
on both sides of winning
her live-n-let-lives and
treat-your-neighbours-as-yourselves
ringing through my grown-up philosophy
even after dropping then dragging
my religion along
like public loo shoe roll
--
I will write her with clarity
ideally in a tone that grasps
the force of gentle earth she was
but today
I want to sit quiet in her kitchen
while she opens the letter I sent last week
with the opener she keeps
on the table in a stand
watch her eyes squint hard, but happy
going through photos I picked
of the kids, for her
I’d stick them up on her weird green fridge
like she’d ask me to
and we’d have hot chocolate
over her 16th lifetime attempt
to teach me this goddamned game of cards
we would talk about how
her operation went fine
I would ask
what she wants for her birthday soon
she would tell me
nothing
Published 29th Apr 2022
Author's Note
Originally published 22 Jan 2021/ edited 4 Feb 2021
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
30th Apr 2022 00:45am
I did a workshop once, in which we meditated on a red string going back through all of our ancestors until we reached the source of our being. And soon you realise that our existence is the result of the love of thousands. But not only that, our trauma passes with them. We inherit our bloodline. And that’s why families are so hard.
I guess I identified with this on a personal level because our families are not always people we would choose. But we embrace them and deal with them, nevertheless.
Somebody also told me once that I am the person my line has been waiting for. Sometimes we’re here to break generational curses. We process. We do the work. And that’s something I’m willing to embrace.
Your first person narratives are always so strong. They’re captivating. Especially in a piece like this.
Thank you for sharing it.
-M
I guess I identified with this on a personal level because our families are not always people we would choose. But we embrace them and deal with them, nevertheless.
Somebody also told me once that I am the person my line has been waiting for. Sometimes we’re here to break generational curses. We process. We do the work. And that’s something I’m willing to embrace.
Your first person narratives are always so strong. They’re captivating. Especially in a piece like this.
Thank you for sharing it.
-M
Thank you for your gorgeous insights here, Missy. Genetic memory is such a powerful thing when your DNA carries memories and information down from those before you, trauma responses, coping mechanisms, behaviours (it's how they breed dogs I imagine) and we can choose to consciously do the work in trying to alter these curses before they get passed along, and when. It's like fighting your own cells.
Your support is always appreciated, thank you for leaving your thoughts.
Your support is always appreciated, thank you for leaving your thoughts.
Anonymous
25th May 2022 10:25pm
Normally I blather on about this and that and yet for this I’ve got nothing
Except thank you
Except thank you
