May 31, 2018

Mothers and sons.  Devin texted me today.  I haven't communicated with him in 7 1/2 years.  There have been little snippets of his life that I have been privy to, but only from my snooping.  I hope he feels comfortable enough to meet up so we may catch up with all that has happened to him in these past years.  I know he has grown a lot:  physically, mentally, educationally.

He is a man now.  29 years old!  I was there for his birth, having sympathy symptoms with Dorinda.  He was a little one!

I remember that we (like I was having a baby) were scheduled to be induced and needed to be at the hospital that morning at 6 or maybe 7.  I woke up during the night to go to the restroom and saw Dorinda up, walking around the center of our apartment.  She was in labor!  "Should we go to the hospital right now?"  I asked her.  "No, the contractions are not close enough.  Let's just wait until our scheduled time,"  she said.  Like a crazy person, I said, "Ok, just wake me up if you need me."

What!?  I went back to bed.  She stayed up and kept walking.  Hmmm.  Looking back on it just now, I am thinking;  Why didn't I stay up and walk with her or just keep her company?  I remember being really tired.  Maybe I had worked that day or something?  School?

It all turned out well in the end:  we brought home a beautiful little towheaded boy!

May 30, 2018

"In what do you drown?"

That is a question I often ask my students after reading and analyzing the poem "Black Valentine."  When beginning the 100 Days of Summer Writing, yesterday, I thought is was appropriate to begin my days with that question.  Here's why:
Often, I feel as if I am barely keeping my head above water.  In every corner of my life, I feel as if there is so much going on that I don't have a moment of peace.  My mom and all that involves her, my mother in law, my marriage, work, ...

Maybe I am being petty.  Maybe I am being weak.

I want to make sure my mom has a good life.  At least what is left of it.  Not only is she at a point where the only way she gets results is to scream at or throw water at the employees at HH but when she is sick, it seems that the abusive side of her personality comes out more.  I feel like I am a broken record with these people at HH.  I always say the same thing to them.  They do not seem to want to do their jobs.  (Not all of them.  There are some good, hard-working people there.  Just some of them.  And those want to make my life a living Hell.)

I would love to have a feeling of peace when coming home at any time of the day.  But, with my MIL there, I have never felt as if this is MY home.  It has always been HER home and I just live there.  She makes sure she is the controlling person in our home.  My husband doesn't see this.  He doesn't understand any of the relationship dynamics.  Of course, now, she hasn't spoken to me in several days.  The last time she tried to have a conversation with me, I had come home from work and visiting Mom, and I had sat down at the table to eat dinner.  Sue decides to come into the kitchen at that time and sit with me.  She commences to tell me about how she and Sandy had gone to an estate sale, and Sandy had purchased a dresser so she could redo Mallory's room.  Sue shows me pictures of two pieces of wicker furniture that Sandy will put into her garage.  Sue's plan is to have Sandy move these pieces of furniture into Hope's new apartment in August.  She then goes into the explanation of how you can purchase a bed frame from Walmart that only needs the mattress.  WHAT?!!!  I thought I was the Mom!  Rather than say anything ugly, I get up and feed the dogs and go to my room.  It still is not okay.

Work.  I love teaching!  I am truly looking forward to having a class of students again next year.  However, all this with my mom interferes with my sanity.  I feel the need to keep up with her through the video so I am available at any time.  Whew.  That is a job in itself. 

Black Valentine

I don't know how my mother got my father

on their bed, or how
she stood over him and cast the fishing
line of her voice in the dark
and hooked him with the barb
of her question, or how
he managed to swim up
out of the bourbon lake in his blood
and slur something like language
from his mouth of stones,
or how that small quiet woman
got the courage to raise her arm
and wade into the rot
and sink knee-deep in the ooze
and hit my father hard-
sternum, cheek bone, an eye
for an eye, I can't say
for sure, all I remember
is pressing my face to the cool
wall, as if to squeeze through,head
first, and stand, a five-year-old
child between them and say
stop. But I couldn't do anything, so I pulled the lake
blue covers over my face
and closed my eyes and saw my first grade teacher cutting paper
hearts, and how
I took them home and taped them
To my parents walls, knowing
Mother would hold her tears
when Father didn't come home
and after t.v. I'd curl inside
the lukewarm hollow of my bed sheets
until I'd wake hearing my mother's
voice tearing the air to pieces,
my father stumbling into the bathroom
to throw his body over the toilet
and I smell the sharp pungency
of his drowning, Mother
dives into save him, quiet
lapping of her voice against
the wooden boat of my bed,
my baby my baby,
that rocking takes me under in sleep.