The End

The End

I check
the mail,
see an envelope
from my sister,
and know it's the end.

I wait
to open it,
drive to the beach,
get settled,
then slit it open.

A check
with my mom's name
in the corner:
Fleurette G. Ryan
and her last

address: Sterling
Assisted Living.
She didn't die there;
that was hospice.
Still....

I fold
the check
and slip it back
in the envelope.
Once all four

are cashed,
Nancy will close
the account.
End
of an era.

End of playing
cards and sipping
wine in the late
afternoon
sun.

End of watching
her enjoying
lobster, melted
butter shining
on her chin.

End of sweet
conversations
while driving
to the cemetery
to place

flowers
on my dad's grave.
End of trips
to Foxwoods.
End of winning.

It's warm
at the beach
but goosebumps
spring up
on my arms.

Rising Early to Begin the Journey

Thursday November 9, 2010

Rising Early to Begin the Journey

Starlight is tip-toeing
across my quilt
when the alarm
goes off. I lie
there for a few moments
feeling the weight
of its footprints,
wishing I could fall
back to sleep.
Getting up, I glance
out the window
at a quarter moon
smiling.

I'm not.

It's 4:30
and I have a plane
to catch.
My mom has cancer
and I have to go
to Florida
to care for her.

The stars are still
in the sky
as I head out
of town,
the same stars
my mom can see
if she looks
out her window.
But, she can't
even get out
of bed.

The moon
slides behind
clouds.

Two Days After My Dad Died

Tuesday November 16, 2010

Two Days After My Dad Died

The sun haloes
their heads
as they sit on the couch:
my mom's white
cloud of hair
and my daughter's
dark waves.

"How did you and Grampy
meet?" Erin asks.

A smile
like a flower opening
spreads over
my mom's face.

She starts talking.
We listen.
Erin reaches over
and holds her hand
while the sun rests
on their shoulders.

Writer's Island Visual Prompt

The follwoing image by Michael Maeir is the prompt at Writer's Island this week.  I've been in a bit of a poetry slump so decided to write a letter, instead.

Letter

Hi, Mom, I see Dad
has taken up the violin
again. It always amazed
me that those rough

and greasy mechanic’s
hands could ever make
music. But you knew
how magical he was.

It’s so nice to see you
young again and swaying
to the strains of the ocean
waltzing out of the violin.

Never look back, Mom.
We’re all doing fine here.
Open those wings and blend
into the gossamer forever

with your violin player
scattering confetti notes
around you until you both
become a whirlwind of one.

Love,
Linda

Shackles for One Single Impression

I’m in the gray cellar
cleaning out
my mom’s things.

I knew it would happen
I just didn’t know
when or how.

She died last summer
and I hadn’t been
able to really mourn.

My heart was bound
in chains and I hadn’t
found the key.

Until I discover
her well-worn
crossword dictionary.

Inside the front cover
are pieces and pieces
and pieces and pieces

of paper containing
obscure definitions
and meanings

written in my mom’s
neat penmanship
straight across

the pages. My mom
who was so embarrassed
because she never

even graduated from
high school, who
always thought

she wasn’t smart, who
completed the crossword
every single day

and recorded the words
she learned, who was
smarter than anyone

else I knew. I stand
in the cellar marveling
at this pearl

of a mother and wipe
my teardrops
from her precious words.

Sunday Scribblings: Big & Writer's Island: Tribute

Big Move

This weekend
we have to divide
my mom’s possessions.

The creativity
of her braided rugs,
the work ethic
of her refinished furniture,
the perseverance
of her cross-stitched
pictures,
the lightness and joy
of her delicate
pastel champagne glasses.

From the whole
to the scattered.
A star exploding,
raining down
her goodness
all over the map.

I spray lemon Pledge
on her dining room
table one last time
and polish it
until it shines.

NaPoWriMo #17: The Elements

I’m the one
with a sense
of humor.

I don’t rage
like fire
with a hot tongue

nor am I stoic
like the patient
earth

and I don’t have
sun’s steadfast
hope

No, I like to play.
A couple days
ago I had fun

with Linda. She
needed cheering up
after visiting

an assisted-living
facility for her mom.
She and her brother

were sitting on the porch
having a beer
and a glass of wine

reading all 30 plus
pages of the contract
when I slipped

around the corner
of the house
and blew a puff

of fresh levity
their way. It lifted
those heavy papers

and twirled them around.
Linda reached to control
them and spilled her merlot

all over every singe one
of those white sheets
and her legs

and her chair. I
chortled at this
unexpected bonus

sashayed around
then moved on
knowng my work was done.

NaPoWriMo #14: Cleave Poem

Blue eyes Brown eyes
Skin like satin Skin like suede
Sitting up straight Sitting hunched over
Talking about Twilight Talking about Paul Newman
Looking forward Looking backward
Going into eighth grade Going into assisted living
Spring Winter
Michelle Nana

NaPoWriMo #8: Love Metaphor

Pussy willows
soft gray forevers

like my mom
a sign of hope

that lasts through
the winter of life.

On Sunday I’m
flying to Florida

to see her because
she’s hurting:

compression fractures,
cracked pelvis,

memory loss,
depression.

Decisions
must be made.

This afternoon
I took a walk

in the woods
and picked some

pussy willows.
I put them in a vase

next to my parents’
wedding photo.

Poetry Train: The Sad

Kylie and I
are snug in a recliner
watching Snow White
and the Seven Dwarfs.

When Snow White
is in her glass coffin,
I think of my mom
in pain and how close

she’s come to death.
Kylie wipes tears away.
She sniffles
and says, “Sometimes

the sad comes out
through my nose.”
I reach for a tissue
and give Kylie a hug.

Sunday Scribblings: Fluent

This happened yesterday.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The call comes
while I am walking.

Nancy says, “Mom
fell and is in the hospital

with a cracked pelvis
and other injuries.”

As Nancy talks
I picture my mom

so healthy until five
years ago when cancer

struck. Since then
she’s had heart surgery,

compression fractures,
infections, falls,

bruises, and now this.
My beautiful mother

who never hurt anyone,
is now fluent

in the language
of pain.

M=Mom for ABC Wednesday

Four years ago my mom had cancer. It was a lymphoma that presented itself in her thyroid. They operated and she, surprising her doctors, survived. I spent part of my summer vacation that year in Florida taking care of her and wrote this poem in the airplane on the way down there.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This Isn’t a Poem

The sunrise looks like
an apricot river as I gaze
out the airplane window.
I wish I were flying
to Aruba instead of to Florida
to take care of my mom
and her cancer.
I would sink my feet
into brown sugar sand
instead of trying to make them
fit under the seat in front
of me.

My mom is a sick child
courageously coughing
the cancer
that is chewing her up.

She is my hero
and her sunrise tastes
like blood
and smells like death.

Nevertheless, she shines with strength.

I wish I were a magician
and could wave my wand
to make her better.

This isn’t a poem about loss, though;
it’s a poem about the thread of love
and how we sew the quilts of our lives together
with stitches of willpower and caring.

Penultimate for TOP and Monday Poetry Train

Penultimate

The sun is buttering
the oak leaves
on this second-to-last
morning at camp.

My impatiens survived
the thirty-degree
temperature and are sun-
bathing.

The butterflies
in my heart
are still for the moment;
my mom has agreed

to move to an independent-
living facility
where she can be monitored
and stimulated.

This will be her
second-to-last home
and I don’t want to think
about her last.

The sun plays
hide-and-seek
with my fingers
as I type.

Sunday Scribblings: Anticipate

Flies land like raindrops
on the mirror canal.

A foot-long fish
jumps for supper

making the reflection
of trees shimmer.

Evening settles
like a shawl

on my mother’s shoulders.
Then Erin calls

and asks me to baby sit
Kylie next weekend.

I smile in anticipation:
oldest to youngest.

The sun sets
behind lemon clouds.

I grab my camera
and snap away the day.

3WW: Darkness, Patronize, Weaken

The last couple weeks
have been a darkness

watching my mom
weaken day by day.

Tomorrow, I’ll be going
to Florida to care

for her for a week.
That’s twice in the last

few days that I had to patronize
Direct Air for plane tickets.

The first time was for her
and the nice girl behind

the counter upgraded her
to first class and let me

go through security
to stay with her

until boarding time.
The second was for me.

So, poetry has been
far from my mind.

I miss it. So, right now
I’m going to take

my computer outside
and sit on the porch

and read what everyone
else has written.

Abecedarian for TOP

She sits on the sofa
sometimes all day

and traces my movements
to and fro
through the tired afternoon

until the umbrella
of evening unsheathes
its shadow over us

and I’m verging on violence.
I love my mom
very much and treat
her as tenderly as my Nonie
took care of her African violets

but wearing away
by doing nothing
wears on my world.

So I offer her a glass
of wine and we play
a game of cards
which she wins

in exceptional excellence
and my xylophone whining
mellows out.

The soft yellow
of the dining room light
bathes us in butter
and instead of yelling
my frustrations at her

I laugh and enjoy
the buzz, the companionship,
and the zippity-doo-da
of being in mom zone.

Worry for Sunday Scribblings

Did you ever have anyone
hand you a glass of wine
in an expensive wine glass

thin as a skim of ice
on a pond? You hold
that stem like a delicate

rose. That’s how I feel
about my mom, now. I
love the wine, but

the container is just so fragile
that I’m afraid she’ll break.
I hug her as gently as possible.

Healing for Sunday Scribblings

A Voice

My mom started
talking again
last week.

It’s not much
more than
a whisper

but it is a
softness so
welcomed.

For months now
she’s been
mouthing words

and we’ve been
frustrated
lip-readers:

one of the sad
side effects
of cancer.

Hearing her voice
now is like
winning a

hard-fought
soccer game:
Mom-1
Cancer-0

Cheers.
Whoops.
Smiles.

~Linda Jacobs
Oct. 5, 2004

NaPoWriMo Day 15: List and Photo Poem for TOP

First Anniversary

Suit
tie
smiles of what have we done

arms
hands
an old car for the journey

child
first
making ends meet

Fleurette
Jim
“I loved your father so much”

Cocooned
protected
a lump in the throat

Ma
Linda
Daddy

Aging for Sunday Scribblings

I'm recycling this week. I wrote this one a couple years ago.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


If she tilts
her head
just so
in the golden shafts
of sun,
I can see
a lone hair
growing
on her chin.

I consider telling
her about it
but we’re in the middle
of a card game
and she’s winning
so I don’t want
to spoil
this time
we have together.

Later that night
after she has climbed
the stairs
one step at a time
carrying the weight
of eighty-one
years of laughter
and sadness,

I, too get ready
for bed.
I brush my teeth,
wash my face
and apply
a night cream.
The light
catches a glint
on the curve
of my chin
and I stand there
looking in the mirror
at my mother.