It always happens like this. Something awful happens, and I get hurt and upset, but I’m ok. And then something else happens, and I’m struggling even more, but I’m hanging in. And then something else happens, and something else, and something else… and then I crack. Things haven’t quite got to breaking point yet, but I feel as though I’m heading in that direction.
A close friend of mine who lives in Costa Rica has a tumour that needs to be removed as soon as possible. The trouble is, he doesn’t have the money for the operation. He has AIDS, but he’s been a bit better the last couple of years. But now I’m really worried about him. I wish I could pay for his operation. Anyone got a few thousand dollars spare? I’m going to go to the bank when they open after Easter, and see if I can get a loan. I wish I could see him again, I miss him so much. I wrote this poem when I hadn’t heard from him in a long time and I was worried about him.
Minor
If I cry loud enough
will I drown out the rain
storms rattling the corrugated iron
over your bed?
Is this aching strong enough to break
open the cacao fruit
and would you notice
as they burst and bleed
through your kitchen window.
I would bring you the lily
of our first day, blood
red perfection. Remember
how it glowed? The petals
watched us all night murmuring
their approval.
I was afraid, your arms
were so fragile I thought my love
would break you. I thought
my ignorance would hurt you.
Perhaps you have died already,
would I even know?
Who would tell me, who
could grieve with me
would I feel the earth
sigh, as your spirit broke
free from your body?
Here
red ribbons
bloom in the streets
announcing the passing
of another year
in silence.
*
And the latest news is that my grandfather has had a heart attack. And his wife is probably going to leave him and sell the house (which is hers) but no one has told him this yet. I can totally understand why she wants to leave. Eric is very stubborn and independent. Hazel has been losing her eyesight, she’s almost totally blind now. And Eric, though he has been very active for an 85 year old, he’s not strong enough to look after her. Hazel wants to move into a home, where she won’t have to worry about so many things. She’s been wanting to for a while, but Eric won’t hear of it.
He’s being very unrealistic about what he can do – he wants to go out and do all these things on Friday, but really he’s going to need to be in care for a few weeks. He just doesn’t know when to slow down. He had a small stroke last year, and he started slowing down a bit after that. Slowing down for Eric means that he cancelled the trip to South America but kept travelling around Aotearoa, taking up new hobbies, organic gardening, bee-keeping…
It’s been quite a shock the last couple of years, to see that his body is deteriorating. I think part of me though he’d keep going forever. He’s always been so fit and strong. He’s been vegetarian for 79 years, and he’s into raw foods and herbal remedies. He’s been involved in everything from peace activism and environmentalism to journalism and mechanics. He’s an amazing guy. I’m proud that he is my grandfather.
I’m so scared of losing him. My biggest fear in the world is losing people. People going away. People dying. My grandmother died two weeks before my third birthday. I think that most of my emotional problems can be traced back to either the abuse or to my grandmother dying. I wish I’d had longer to get to know her.
During the poetry workshop I did last year we had to do an exercise called “Syllabic Ancestors.” We had to write a letter to a grandparent or great-grandparent, in syllabics (each line has the same number of syllables). I decided to write a letter to my grandmother, and I talked to my parents about her a lot while I was writing the poem. I found out we had so much in common. She was probably a lesbian. She suffered from depression. It sounds as though she had a similar temperament to me. While I wrote the poem I listened to Bach’s concerto for two violins. It was her favourite piece of music, and we played it at her funeral.
Concerto for two women
I am grateful. It’s hard to
explain but these notes joyful
and solemn, express for me
our irregularities.
It’s beautiful isn’t it
sky through lashes blurred by tears
the bump bump of a small chin
against a shoulder as two
walk through September rain: You
would appreciate these things.
I wonder if it is your
shy voice leading me, a thread
stitched through music. Would you be
shocked to see this dyke short hair
and matching short sharp dyke words?
(well someone’s got to say it)
I hope you know why I break
open all our silences
I dance for us both tonight.
May the day come when the whole
universe stops to listen
as one of seven wonders
is alive for the first time
born of these two violins.
*
I have less in common with my other grandmother. She’s been very frail since before I was born. She reads Women’s Weekly and keeps up to date with which celebrities have had whose babies. I don’t really have so much in common with her. And yet, the thought of her dying scares me. I feel as though I never really bothered to get to know her. I found her frustrating when I was younger. She was always so frail, and I always used to get guilt tripped about how I had to go and visit her because it might be her last Christmas. Then the next year it was always going to be her last Christmas again. I felt as though she was dying my whole life. I got sick of grieving for her.
Now she’s in a home, and she’s a lot healthier, and I get on with her better too. I guess I’m a bit older and I relate to her differently. She’s a tough wee thing, that’s for sure. I think she’s 88 now, and she’s been through a hell of a lot during her life. I respect her more, now that I know some of the things she’s survived.
*
Sometimes I’m so scared of losing people that I push them away rather than risk them leaving me.
*
He says this is the worst thing that has ever happened. And it is.
Please he says. Please.
But you can’t. Because it would be going back to leaving him.
You prepared yourself to leave him for years. It took such a long time.
It took years of listening to him leaving you, knowing that he wouldn’t.
All that leaving.
All that is left is the leaving.
- from The Boyfriends by Jenny Bornholdt
Posted by Fionnaigh at April 20, 2003 10:28 PM