A Splash of Prose
A Splash of Prose
When They Were All Young Together
Nursing Alien Infants
Grandmothers
Sad In the Womb
When They Were All Young Together
I remember that time years ago
when they were all young together
every day on purpose I stayed too busy to be swallowed
by my sorrow. I developed sleek methods of saving time on our jaunty
carousel of minutes and hours lining them up for diaper changing, feeding three
in high chairs from one bowl, playing the baby bird, mommy bird game;
pushing one cart full of little ones, pulling the other with groceries;
the fourth child attached to the handle so as not to get lost;
buying the widest plush rocking chair with wings so
I could rock them all at once to settle them for
naps, telling them of the boat we were on
and the ocean around us, and if one
got down they would be all wet;
inventing stories on the spot
to fasten their attention
to rest time;
later bathing them all
together in a wild tub of glee while
listening to Mozart; lying in the waterbed reading to
them two on each side, holding the book high so all could see the
pictures, my arms going to sleep though the children never did; remembering to
kiss 'n hug 'n pray each evening, and sing lullabies to all of them together
in one room; before I went out on the front porch to sit lonely in night
silence sipping cool wine, breathing fresh air and
bathing his memory in a font of
tears
(C) 2000 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
* * *
Nursing Alien Infants
Yours is a bitterness that has captured you on a downhill slide.
I’ve watched through the years as you clung with such fierce determination to your angers. You’ve held those rages to your bosom, ever nursing them as though they were beloved children.
Beware, my friend, they will rust your spirit out like an old car in a town by the ocean.
The time you dissipate in that ancient chair, on those antique rockers of memory, allowing those bitter winds of mutation to whistle round your spirit’s door,
is ravaging you.
Those rusting springs of rage will stab you some day.
You will discover one day the damage done; your loving soul becoming increasingly feeble, and your caring nature slipping away until you cannot retrieve a trace when you desire it back.
Saltwater left unwashed eats away holes in metal. And rage perpetually nourished eats irreversible holes in spirits.
(C) 1999 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
* * *
Grandmothers
My two grandmas lived next door to each other in the country, and we lived beside them on the same acreage, (where four houses bustling with our closest relatives all lived), from the ages of two through eight, then visiting every other weekend for many years. They were as different from one another as two women could probably be, but each gave me memories to treasure.
Grandma M.
With kisses of coffee
All bosom and gentleness
Feeding me half hot tea half milk
Lots of sugar, crumbly light exotic pastries
She herself had baked, the good old Swedish way;
Showing me her latest sewing projects, crocheting and tatting.
~ ~ ~
Grandma M.
With hugs of affection
All laughter and nurturing...
Telling me in her cheerful unassuming way
That she’d happily lived alone for forty years now.
Confiding in me about her only little girl who had died,
As though I filled that empty place for her, and I knew I did.
These four long decades later I still marvel at her strength.
* * *
Grandma G.
All rigid and stern
A cold wealth of lectures.
But feeding me vegetable soup
With cheese at lunch, while listening to
The London News from her old country, crackling
Through the big square brown short wave radio in her kitchen;
Opening up the world to me, explaining the vastness
Of the ocean between us, and her first home.
~ ~ ~
Grandma G.
Never touched me, but she let me slide
Down her carpeted stairs on my tummy as long
As I didn’t make any noise. She let me silently explore
Her big house, but never talk. Yet her warm soup
And quiet company at lunch was a gift to
Treasure.
(C) 1999 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
* * *
Sad In the Womb
I do believe some are sad in the womb
born feeling lonely, suckling in discontentment,
fretful and needing, but unable to sustain
what is given sifting through a torn filtered soul;
perpetually grasping, bottomless pits of emptiness.
Solitary even in love, sorrowful even in laughter,
tense even in joy, hollow even in fun.
~ ~ ~
Living nightmares in the light of the day;
haunted awake with daymares in the depth of the night.
Slipping, invisible through the fingers of passion.
Catching fireflies with bare hands; pursuing elusive
hopes with a butterfly net. Little to give; little hold on life;
and a sorry soulful sadness walking with muddy footprints
ever beside them.
(C) 2000 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
* * *
© 1997 - 2002 Rosemary J. Gwaltney
All rights reserved.
