poetry – Delete & Repeat

It comes in pieces and each one hurts,
Acquaintances, relatives, an aunt or a cousin.
News follows diagnosis but from a distance,
Positive news – the spin we choose
filters through life’s projects & errands, truths & lies
The damage is limited, the treatment severe,
Yet contained,
As the distance between shields us from the fear in their eyes.
The small shadow cast fades with successes relief
And we remark on progress made, odds improved.
Yet in a small way the shadow seeps in.
We internalize doubt
and falter momentarily in our confidence,
Our expectation,
Of following Aunt Mary’s eternal existence
Kicking and screaming at 96
But no. Never mind. I am fine.

Then comes another blow – closer this time,
A mother, a sister.
The fear grows closer and life holds its breath
With luck – that uncertain chance – the damage is contained
Cut out, treated.
Life resumes warily,
Holidays become more important
And communication dearer.
Fix those things you can control.
The treatment is clear yet
the low note of fear is audible and
the flash of nerves in the eyes visible.
Like a shot through the buffer
Like a breeze through a cloud
Realization sets in.
The shadow spreads.

Then there’s the news – a gene gone astray
The genetic component considered, explored, confirmed.
A sentence.
The shadow spreads, creating a familial silence, and unwanted bond
A background realized,
Grey against the horizon.
Yet the assumptions of life remain.
Testing confirms vulnerabilities.
Mom didn’t get it till midlife,
No need to worry yet. Be vigilant.
Live.

It’s what you don’t consider
Time’s twisted irony,
that comes back
And bites you.

The visit that shatters.
Not a parent, or an aunt, but my daughter.
My daughter, who holds my heart in her hand.
My daughter, my love.
No.

I’ve always thought
that even among the turmoil of the frantic news cycle,
the swirling currents of hatred and despair,
the politics of division
and the policies that contribute in the currency of fear,
hat joy still exists among the sound of birds singing.
Outside my window.
  
I’ve always thought
that in the hardest of times,
while personal reckonings fraught with disappointment 
as frustration rises and falls inverse with sleep,
while traveling the most painful of paths
and screaming inside,
that my mind could be eased.
Watching helplessly while one you love most suffers
and steps up bravely to fight for a life so undeserving of pointless disease
I always looked to the clamor of birds
the burp of a frog
and the chatter of insects
Outside my window. 
  
But these sounds are dimmed.
The silence of my studio extends to the grass and trees.
The little fountain in the garden babbles stark against the silence
and the ticking of the clock is audible.
It shouldn’t be.
I call out and the world doesn’t answer.
The melody of life breaks through the melancholy of silence less often.
Where do I find comfort as nature too suffers?
As that melody - that constant presence is withdrawn 
my soul loses its moorings.
As life’s abundance shrinks under the hot sun. 
I listen in vain for that communion so silently missing.
Outside my window.
  
I’ve always thought 
that it was never too late.
Yet my instincts sound the alarm that time has become slippery
rendering quick change futile.
Even so it is time for caring and expression,
birdseed, flowers, water, art. 
With uncertain success I will try to extend my care beyond the constricted borders 
of home and studio.
To nurture what is fading and bring back in however a tiny form
what the world needs… 
and I so long for.
The renewed saturation of life and birdsong
Outside my window.

Tagpoetry

BRCA

The Silent Window

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Had a stroke. Changed my life. Food. Art. Health. Activism.

My Name Is Karen