He asked me at once:
How are you doing?
I answered the usual
- I am always fine.
I saw the flinch, clear in fluorescent light.
He asked me again
How are you doing?
Perpetually,
I will be a child
Under his tutelage and tender care.
A third time he asked
During the funeral
Where I cried and grieved,
Missing my mother.
He shed nary a tear of his own grief.
Four nights past, again.
How are you doing?
In that gentle voice,
Quiet. Hesitant.
I fell apart to that repeated poll.
I asked him, point blank,
How he dare ask me
Especially when
He continued life
As though her death made not a lasting dent.
At least I had known
She knew I loved her.
Through the fights, delights,
She knew I loved her.
I demanded, where were his words of love?
His answer? Surprising.
For a century's quarter,
She knew he loved her.
She knew he cared. Knew!
Now I knew his bleakness at her life's exit.
And then I asked him:
How are you doing?
Bleary eyes, aged face.
Truth reigned in silence.
Pain? Yes. Grief? Oh, yes. Guilt? Perhaps. Love? Still.
Yet he replied not.
How are you doing?
A second query.
Exasperation.
Why don't you let yourself cry? Let her go!
No tears loitering.
I thought I knew him.
He railroaded life
And forgot his own.
At last, an answer: I miss your mother.
How am I doing?
I can't let myself
- Fall apart. Not now.
Not when I don't know
If I can pull together at the end.
Such strong emotions;
Even at twenty years,
I knew of the depth.
Love unrequited,
Dams broken, he told me of their story.
Once upon a time,
He loved my mother.
Took a chance and shared.
Not a yes, nor no,
For his declaration. He would wait. Wait.
Cherished friendship bloomed.
Closer than lovers,
Ever separate.
Things change; feelings don't.
One day, this was no longer adequate.
Small steps began slow
Sways and twirling, this
Beautiful dance of
Friendship to courtship,
Built upon foundations so durable.
I miss her, he says.
Those words so simple.
He has yet to cry.
He does not know yet
His strength without hers to support his own.
That eventful night,
A lovely portrait
Commenced to unfold.
Vivid reds and gold
Separated by bold strokes of black paint.
The colors, I think,
My mother lived in.
And at its finish,
How are you doing?
It asked; I know my mother was asking.
I stared back at it,
Amazed I captured
The stunning aura
That made her special.
I waited, waited like Uncle Gil did.
When I did show him,
Like the way snow drifts
In vacuous quiet
Finally, he cried.
Coming apart like snow - finely powdered - falls.
How easy it is
To hold a true north
In the perspective
Of a bystander.
In reality, we thrash asunder.
His whole life revolved
Upon the career
That first caused their link.
Nights and days reversed,
I wondered when Uncle Gil's compass changed.
To me, the shifting
Took the lifetime of
A solitary
Breath - in, hold, and sigh.
October twenty-fourth, two thousand two.
I saw him one morn,
Eating their mixture
Of dinner and fruit -
So ordinary,
A scene played out numerable times past.
Then another morn,
An ambience flipped,
More settled, content.
And Uncle Gil's smile.
October twenty-fourth, two thousand two.
Happy memory.
The mantra for now
My portrait shows Mom
At one special time.
In the kitchen, we all stood, sipping wine.
Toasting to success,
My first gallery.
Uncle Gil's black suit,
Mom's gorgeous attire.
I sold my first painting, my future's call.
Clearly I recall
The pride in their eyes.
At sixteen years old,
Naïve I was not
I know they celebrated, privately.
Did I mind at all?
No. He promised me
Once upon a time
To be my father.
He made Mom happy; that's all I cared for.
Coming back to now,
I ask Uncle Gil,
Do you remember
That time four years back?
He smiles fondly, wiping his tears away.
I wonder on him.
Will he visit her
This first year solo?
The date's fast coming.
T-minus one hundred hours and counting.
And then, he is gone.
Vanished, walked into
The clear, cloudless fog.
When I do find him,
I wish life was devoid of harsh realism.
Shall we fast forward
To a future, some
Long fifteen years hence?
Dreary, gloomy rain.
It's October, two thousand twenty eight.
Three tombstones lined up.
The first, worn and ragged.
Weathered by time's pass.
Tended carefully,
By a daughter who loved and misses him still.
The second, arrayed
In peaceful rest like
She moved in her life,
"Catherine Willows"
Stone yet new and sharp, elegant and fair.
It separated
Both my fathers, who
Though they loved me, cared
Not for the other.
And, finally, the last cairn in the row.
Brand new, recently
Carved and placed aground.
Soil still sporting some
Footprint impressions.
Suddenly, I know there is a voice spent.
No more soft quests of
How are you doing?
No more unreserved
Support and love's pride.
Yet, a whispered condolence soothes my grief.
Glad, carefree laughter
Floats upon the breeze.
It rings femininely.
Soon, perfume I know
Is carried by the same breath of Nature.
Uncle Gil has found
My mother again.
I have no true doubt
That love transcends time.
He promised me; I know he keeps all vows.
To the end of time,
He said, so surely.
I believe him now.
Reunions of love.
In death, He joins my mother and father.
Could I admit one
Simple, simple thought?
For the first moment
In my life: loneness.
For the first time ever, I am alone.
And it's only him
Who I miss so much.
Always there, constant,
Near when all else leaves,
The rock of strength for the Willows women.
Sun rays shine outwards
From gray thunder clouds.
I smile. Troubles melt.
Mortal he may be
But spiritless he was not. Life continues.
It did for me when
Dad's funeral passed.
It did for him when
Mom's funeral passed.
It will for me now his funeral passed.
I will miss them all,
However love binds.
I will love and mourn
For friends who surely
Will be well met for one more memory.
|