Five Generations

Veronica Kramer

I.
HANNAH

          She sits in a corner rocking, 
          A curly-haired blond of three
          Rocking, rocking
          Wishing she were safe on mommy’s knee.

          Tears rolling down her face
          Over hills of dimpled cheeks to chin.
          Crying, crying,
          Much like boys and girls rebuffed for simple sins. 

          Her tiny hands mask hopeless eyes
          To shield against an act of shame. 
          Hiding, hiding,
          Like little ones playing childhood games. 

          Rocking doesn’t comfort her, 
          And misty eyes relieve no grief.
          She cannot hide from her world.
          Rocking, crying, hiding, nothing brings relief.
          Daddy’s home and mean again
          With smoky clothes and breath that reeks. 
          He raises voice and hand to mom
          Until he yields to drunken sleep. 


II.
KATIE

When she was three, 
Your words slapped and stung her. 
She hurt. 

When she was five, 
Years of repeated assault wounded and scarred her heart.
It did no good to resist your fury, so she surrendered instead.
She accepted. 

When she was eight, 
Each time the torrent of your outburst subsided, you begged her not to hate you. 
You took her to church to learn how to forgive you;
Your God said it was wrong to hate, so all she felt was fragile. 
She doubted herself.

When she was twelve, 
Your rage turned to resentment, and you turned away from her. 
Your absence wounded worse than your anger.
You never reached out for her, and she thought herself unworthy of love. 
She resigned herself to loneliness. 

When she was fifteen, 
A chasm between you kept your worlds apart.
You did not exist to her; she was devoid of feeling. 
Your sniping attacks pricked her to a snakish tongue. 
She learned to despise you. 

When she was seventeen, 
She left you. 

When you left this world behind, 
Tears of grief cleansed for a time. 
As her pain succumbed to numbness, 
She could no longer muster anger.
She grieved. 

Today, 
Your reproach defines her. 
Turning all blame inward, 
She knows that she is worthless. 
Her self-hatred erupts at the slightest upset. 
Her words slap and sting those around her…



III.
SUSAN

        There are things she never said:

	“Why did you call my salad rabbit food?”
	Your diet of Reese’s and Pepsi made her what she is today—overweight.

	“Why can’t I run and play with them?”
	Caution made her what she is today—hesitant.

        “Why did you call me stupid because I brought the wrong screwdriver?”
        Doubt made her what she is today—insecure. 

	She once 
	loved you, emulated you,
	trusted you, obeyed you, 
	but you
	teased her, mocked her, 
        betrayed her, berated her.
        She wanted
        to be Daddy’s little girl,
        but you whipped her spirit
        until she froze with indecision. 

        She would never tell you:
        “You scare me.”
        “You hurt me.”
        “I hate you.”

        If she even read these words, 
        She would deny them. 
        She has tucked the feelings deep inside, and is
        too scared, 
        too hurt, 
        too angry
        to acknowledge them.

        There is one thing she would tell you:

        “I love you, Dad,”
        but she couldn’t mean it until you were gone. 



IV.
ROSE

Her childhood spent in thunderstorms; 
The blossom of her youth was
nearly destroyed by raging gales. 

Her outlook overcast by doubt and fear,
she wondered if she would ever know
what love is. 

Then came the man
who plucked her from
the unfertile field. 

This kind of love held:
passion
desire
It was a fertile love.

A seed of hope grew inside her
bearing fruit. 

Lord, grant that rain fall gently
in the life of the next
generation of love. 



V.
GABRIEL

	In the playroom, 
With chocolate ice-cream face, he stacks blocks and Legos
	   taking only a moment’s break
			to collect hugs from mom and grandma. 

		In the backyard,
	With perpetual curiosity, he examines bugs and spiders
		stopping only to 
			stomp the ants. 

			At the beach, 
		With toes gripping warm wet sand, he crouches to finger seashells
	ceasing only to 
spread his bird wings  and become a gull. 

At the park, 
	With stick in hand, he pokes leaves and strokes tree bark
		halting only to
			roll down the hill. 

                In the garden, 
        With hands folded on his belly, he squats to smell the flowers and even the vegetables
pausing only to 
        pop cherry tomatoes in his mouth. 

He spends his day in consummate play
Little limber blond of three hanging from an apple tree,
Carefree.