Plaster Hand.

I have this plaster hand…
Likened to yours;
Hanging above the kitchen door…
The one we made so long ago…
On Christmas Eve Day, just bored…
I have a poem written…
By your tiny hand;
As tiny as the one that hangs…
Above the kitchen door frame…
It says “Mommy I Love You”…
And the Gods help me…
If when I pass it by, I don’t hear the words…
In a sigh, a whispering…
I keep a tiny, silver jewelry box…
The one you saved up for;
Inscribed across the dusty top …
Is chiseled in, beautifully:
“I Love You Mommy”…
And Mommy dies a little more…
I have all these haunting memories…
Of having future plans;
Fulfilling hopes and dreams…
Just you and I surviving…
Getting back up to stand…
I saved these Christmas things…
Yours and mine;
Stored away like a box to mourn…
Every year, when it’s opened again…
And looks the same…
As the years before…
I held on to your special ornaments…
All of them;
Though I never hang them high…
I never get a tree anymore…
I see no reason why…
But I keep these things…
To remind myself…
Of the twinkle lost to my eye…
I held on to so many things…
Of yours;
Desperately trying…
To keep you somehow, near…
Closer at least…
Than wherever you are…
I have this little butterfly wing…
You brought home;
You flew it behind you like a kite…
A colorful ghost that chased you…
Right out of second grade…
I find these notes you wrote…
To me; To Mommy;
They read your apologies…
For spilling toothpaste on the rug…
And I want to come find you wherever you are…
And tell you that rug never mattered to me.

Mama.

“Are you okay, Jake?”

(My mother’s nickname for me is Jake)

Hmmmmm…I don’t know, Mama…

let’s review, shall we? How shall I respond to such a painfully dense query? …

Maybe by throwing myself beneath oncoming freeway traffic…

Or peeling the fucking skin from my face with a smile…

Would spontaneous combustion count as a reply to your stupid-ass question?

crying-woman‘Am I okay?’…

fuck no, I’m not okay…come here and I’ll show you.

floki nooooooDear Mama,

I’ve NEVER been okay, and, as my blood-mother – has it ever occurred to you that you should know these things better than anyone? It hurts me so deeply that you take such little interest in knowing me – never have much cared about WHO I AM.
The irony here Mom, is that I am everything I am because of you, essentially, despite your ongoing carelessness and cruelty throughout my entire life. You will never understand me because you don’t care to; you will never hear me because you don’t listen to my words, and never could be still long enough to…do you know how much that hurts me? Even now after all this time I’ve had to accept who you are, it still just doesn’t sit well with me to know that your only daughter is wasted on you, and always was. You’re ignorance has always wounded me deeply, Mom.
Please keep trying, I will too.

Papa always told me that if you are crossing a bridge and become tired, you have only two options:

1) To sit down in the middle of the crossing and die;

2) To go back or forward until you get to one side or the other…

but you don’t just sit down and die, you keep going.

Plaster Hand.

I have this plaster hand…
Likened to yours;
Hanging above the kitchen door…
The one we made so long ago…
On Christmas Eve Day, just bored…
I have a poem written…
By your tiny hand;
As tiny as the one that hangs…
Above the kitchen door frame…
It says “Mommy I Love You”…
And the Gods help me…
If when I pass it by, I don’t hear the words…
In a sigh, a whispering…
I keep a tiny, silver jewelry box…
The one you saved up for;
Inscribed across the dusty top …
Is chiseled in, beautifully:
“I Love You Mommy”…
And “Mommy” dies a little more…
I have all these haunting memories…
Of having future plans;
Fulfilling hopes and dreams…
Just you and I surviving…
Getting back up to stand…
I saved these Christmas things…
Yours and mine;
Stored away like a box to mourn…
Every year, when it’s opened again…
And looks the same…
As the years before…
I held on to your special ornaments…
All of them;
Though I never hang them high…
I never get a tree anymore…
I see no reason why…
But I keep these things…
To remind myself…
Of the twinkle lost to my eye…
I held on to so many things…
Of yours;
Desperately trying…
To keep you somehow, near…
Closer at least…
Than wherever you are…
I have this little butterfly wing…
You brought home;
You flew it behind you like a kite…
A colorful ghost that chased you…
Right out of second grade…
I find these notes you wrote…
To me; To Mommy;
They read your apologies…
For spilling toothpaste on the rug…
And I want to come find you wherever you are…
And tell you that rug never mattered to me.