Mother often escapes through the drama of other until she loses interest. Like a program too relished, she’s become a viewer rather than a participant in her own life. She was bound to long strolls in the woods and prolonged movements to nowhere in particular. Sitting in cars with strangers and doing many strange things none of us quite understood. I don’t know if mother was looking for trouble but it found her alright.
Mother’s son grew up in a world that looked much different than her own, though there were many similarities. And many more now that… he moved around much, as she had wished she could have… before. He found himself lacking the desire for love aloud but falling for many, many men. Porous and unsure he took to foreign lands once more, as her brother had done before by train, by train the son went. And as he leapt into the new, the sun faded.
Upon wheels of hope, churned the spirit of two souls that never met, through prolonged anticipation. The two halves of mother gathered, growing strong in parallel newness. Brother and son gone and what was she to be left with? Memories and premonitions of her halves, her men.
Brother fell in love with a traveling man with mustache. A thin man by the name of Joe. Joe and Jack. Jack had a bit of an identity crisis but so did everyone of that particular period, only no one said it aloud. Moving back to the big city, wanting and needing wasn’t something you could merely search for. You had to keep quiet. If it weren’t such a secret, you’d consider such another human in similar fortune, certain partnership, a luckiness. And you had to, above all, perservere. A Harvard boy without a plan… brother was determined that something was bound to catch up with him.
The family was no more Ivy League than the snake that had recoiled from being shot out of the lake. But the family had glimmers of pretentiousness. Had collars of pressed needings, and a starch expectingness. They owned a vast piece of property that would one day be worth a great sum… for someone else. For they had to sell it off far too young and lost all from it. Mother considered the sell a curse. Land lost, and with it all familial innocence. Mother hated this loss, for she felt them more than most, but would always be rooted to this land. The swamps of home. So lovely to behold from far away. Like a memory… the reflection is often more engrossing than the moment of us, or them.
But as mother became bogged by her own fog, the parallels of memory, of brother and son, the predecessor for tragedy and the tragedy to still come. For she could smell through premonition, that was her foretell, she knew–oh yes, she knew–it was to come. If not for him… then for her. An ending was near. And the thing about premonitions is, if not heeded they often will come to be simply for the awful vision of seeing them.
And so it would be done, for it was smelt.
And so it was, for she was to be dealt by this, this dwelling in.
Mother fell in the summer before I first took to pen. And she didn’t get back up. Perhaps that is what gave me my strength to step again. I had to move or fall. I used to be a runner. Not of competition, but of flight. And now I feel like settling in. I feel differently now. I feel… magical. I feel…
The past intertwines as I walk along streets cobbled with by uncle long gobbled by a world un-ready to aid such a fellow as this.
The present of a mother long swallowed by the hungry world that gobbles each and every unique character as this.
The future… what are you? I know of this: I will reunite us all, brother and sis. I will rewrite our trajectory by dragging us from swamp heritage. I will rewrite the muck and mirth, the myth of such a ledger lined loss as this. We will not be a footnote of our own tree. We will be wonderful, remembered… I feel…
Thankful. So it begins.
I must correct the familial line by embracing the pain, the past, the love, the magic! The connection of a brother and sis, my uncle I never met. And a mother I know better than I can ever admit. A woman I owe my entire life to. As all men and women owe their mother. I owe, as all know and often do not dare admit, my life to those before me. I owe my life to a brother and a sis who lived hard and died too early to see me finish. I carry you with me. I carry and live through them, and them through this. I encrypt into book, not tomb, for I choose to live. And life, upon reflection is quite magical. Life, quite a gift.
Life begins with woman. And I end all in writing this reflection in both past and future tense: thank you mother. Thank you for life, I am and I will avenge, in living it to the end.