My offering today is a poem. Please remember that the poet and the speaker are not one and the same. When the speaker talks about her mother, I'm not talking about my mother, who was the soul of generosity and could churn out pies with homemade crusts like nobody's business.
And I feel I must mention that we're now up to 94 followers. I'd love to have six more of you by Christmas. Remember when we only had 13 followers for the longest time?
No, of course you don't. You weren't following then.
Infinities of love,
I did not go home when my mother was dying. I feared Her power over me so I could not go. She held me captive with Words. If I had gone, I would have heard Her Words. I waited until she was dead. Then I went home.
I thought I might be Safe.
I Studied Her in Her Coffin. I've always heard that people shrink as they age, particularly if they suffer protracted illnesses. She had aged. She had suffered a protracted illness. She had not Shrunk.
But Her Power wasn't in Her size.
I looked at Her hair. The same. I looked at her hands. The same. Ears, same. Skin, same. Clothes, same. Jewelry, same. Mouth, Not the same. No Words. I began to believe she had lost Her Power over me.
I was wrong.
I try to write. I hear Nabokov, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and others in my mind. I hear my own words in my mind. I try to put the words on paper. They become pathetic, weak, puny. Their greatness disappears.
I know why.
Her Words still hang in the air, overpowering mine before they can drop to the paper.
Yet I believe in words.
I know words in all their ugliness and in all their beauty.
I know words.
I know the power of words.
Rereading this poem now, I don't think I like it. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow if I get a little honest bloggy criticism, suggestions, and love.