Sunday, February 17, 2013
I have a picture of my mama that I snapped on a camping trip when I was in my teens. She is in her robe and sitting backwards on the picnic table bench with coffee mug in her hand. She had been staring at the fire with a intense look. You can see the darkness around her. Just as I snapped the picture she turned and looked at me. There is an emptiness in her eyes.
I took the picture because the writer in me saw something deeper there. That I was witnessing a peek into her soul, into her reality. A place my teenage mind couldn't fathom.
Its always been my favorite picture of her.
I look like mama. Her old highschool friends will come into my work and stop with mouths open and stare at me. They all say the same thing "P_____?!"
Brother #2 thought the picture of her leaning on the tree in Tiny Gma's photo album was me.
I think we share something deeper then appearances.
I think we both know the secrets... the hidden secrets that writers know.
We are Helen of Troy, we both have worn the jewelry of royalty. We have been exsaulted and worshiped.
We sing in our hearts siren songs, we understand the morse code the waves beat into the sand.
We dig holes with our secret pain that no one knows we carry,
fill them into overflowing puddles with our silent hidden tears.
We pluck our own feathers from our wings to give to others so they can fly...
leaving us flightless, and behind.
We drift aimlessly on the rolling waves of depression hoping no one will see us
not wanting to be the anchor that pulls anyone down.
We are spirited range mares, doesn't take much to set us off bucking and kicking into a gallop,
hooves clicking on the stones, tails flying into the wind...you can't catch us
we are all that is woman, we hold the ancient pain like some torch that must not be exstingushed.
We lead the way,
and bring up the rear.
We give so much and then cry into our pillows cause we think no one saw us...or can possible understand us.
We fight with our selves in epic battles no one ever sees.
Each day rising to shoulder our packs and soldier on.
We have greeted the born and held the dead.
Protect the young and set them on there own two feet and set them to running on there own lives journey.
We speak to each others image never addressing the person behind it.
We have loved deeply
woven all the magic we discovered in this life into a magical crazy quilt of neurosis's.
We can speak volumes with a flash of our Scorpio eyes
Found special men who steady us without holding us too tight
Opened books and gotten lost in the pages.
Can look at blank note books and see the words on the pages
feel like that if we write enough we will find the right combination of words that will solve the rubic cube we call life.
I see mama when ever I look into the mirror. That camping trip snap shot look stares back at me. A now familiar landscape of the soul of a mama and daughter.