We Had Five Years Left to Cry In
So many mothers sighing
Separation - W. S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
How can the dimension of time be as fungible as text? How can a poem appear to take on a different meaning when printed in a book, or seen on a screen? How did Merwin’s poem read aloud at my Mother’s funeral affect those that heard it from her son? How can the shards of sunlight cast shadows arching across the bedroom floor, the warmest floorboard to be eventually plopped down on by our dogs and cats as the sun moves each day?
How have five years passed since the unthinkable happened to us?
I still cry at a certain exit on the highway, at a certain spot on Washington St right near my house if I am on the bus. I always give a thumbs up and a “Hi, Momma, I’m doing O.K. today” when I ride my bike past Brigham and Women’s hospital.
I didn’t know this at the time, but apparently what I thought was normal behavior for an art school kid right near that hospital on Mission Hill (going to raves, doing drugs meant for horses, and looking like a skeleton) caused my parents to take out a life insurance policy on me. Regret has a face and this is the one, real Grim Reaper that haunts me to this day. How could my actions cause such pain and damage to the people I love the most? How could I have been so careless with my own life? Why would I do anything to make my parents feel bad, or to worry?
311
…trust your instincts, and let go of regret
My mother was a worrier. She never liked driving into The City, even when she had to serve on a longstanding Grand Jury case. She complained about having to go but we all knew she loved it, a fan of murder mysteries from Sherlock to Christie. When we were forced to move out of my apartment because of a fire, it was very difficult for her. We were fine and got back on our feet with her and Dad’s help.
Two Million Lives have been lost, and counting, to date of the deadly COVID-19 disease. While I tend to avoid “If my Mother were here” thought loopholes, or “Mom would do it this way” sentiments, though they, in fact, are inevitable thoughts to have. She is still here with me in her favorite chopping block, her steam trunk waiting to be restored in our bedroom with her maiden name ‘Robyn B. Silva’ written by her hand.
What would Mom do in these strange, dark days? What would our holidays look like? Would I have asked her to commit her spaghetti sauce recipe if I knew I had just a bit more time? I have so many things to ask, and I do ask them, aloud, to her. Sometimes she answers me in my dreams.
Dave Norton at Pino Bros Ink — IG: @ChronicDanger
Loss is so painful that it seems cruel that God or Mother Nature builds it into the equation from Day One. While I do express severe regret over my actions that caused my Mother any harm, all I feel and care about is every moment spent in the living room as my Mom was making dinner and I was there to visit, just watching her experiment with peanut butter soups, serving her own tomatoes and remember how fun it was to till the garden with her.
So much loss. The world is in pain, the memories of lost mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters are there to remind us we must continue till our own garden row and grow sunflowers until they blossom and the heads become nearly too heavy and bend the stock.
the garden rocks
too big for a hand spade
will more easily be removed
with some water from the spout
and n’er should not use
a tool not meant for the job
under rocks are worms and genus
of millipede
”Quick!” “scurry to the margins”
find your new co-ld
— Clay Silva Fernald, 24 January 2021
