Tag Archives: stepfather

Night-Blooming Jasmine, a poem

illustration night blooming jasmine

Night Blooming Jasmine, a poem

After dark, anything could happen – each

moment was disconnected from the last.

There was no logical progression to our lives:

most events had the dramatic essence of a car

accident. One evening, my mother decided

to sneak out my bedroom window when my

stepfather cut her off. He was drunk himself,

but for some reason decided she shouldn’t have

more Scotch. I remember her butt, in white

nylon undies, decorating the center of my open

window. I both fretted and hoped that she might

fall and hurt herself. Another night, my stepfather

decided it was time to throw all the pillows away,

including mine, because to him they smelled like

“horse piss.” My mother followed, protesting

loudly, wrestling him for the pillows. She lost:

the pillows went into the garbage cart. This

happened in our front yard, on a warm night scented

with night-blooming jasmine. I watched the two

drunken grown-ups, distancing myself from the scene.

I watched it like a T.V. show or a movie. When

I try to tell people about these things now, I can’t

keep a straight face. The laughter chokes me,

renders me unable to speak. I am silenced.

They’re both long dead now… but I’m still here.

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Filed under addiction, adult children of alcoholics, ancient history, anger, child abuse, child neglect, childhood, divorce, poetry

The Way of Tiny Swordfish, a prose poem

The Way of Tiny Swordfish, a prose poem

Sitting in the living room next to the indoor fish pond.  Watching the tiny swordfish jump up the miniature rock waterfall, knowing and empathizing with their drive to go somewhere farther along, somewhere even unknown, somewhere presently unattainable.

Sitting on the floor next to the black Naugahyde, Father-Knows-Best chair and matching ottoman, which no one actually ever sat in, as if knowing we were not worthy occupants.  Wanting a father badly, asking my stepfather if I could call him Daddy.  My mother made me ask him myself, but I wanted her to ask him for me!

They married when I was four, then went away to New York City – actually the Dick Van Dyke show suburb of New Rochelle – for a year, while I lived with my grandmother.  My mother worked as an “executive” secretary for Norelco, and every time I saw the commercial with Santa riding the Norelco razor down the snowbank I swelled with pride.

I started kindergarten at four, Catholic school.  Nursery school, kindergarten, and first grade with the Catholics.  They say if they have you until age seven, they have you for life.  Saint Teresa for Halloween!  I came home, told Mommy I couldn’t wait to die and go to Heaven, so I could be with Jesus; pictures of Jesus taped to the headboard of my four-poster bed.  Mommy said, “That’s enough Catholic school!”  So public school for second grade.

Loving the families shown in black-and-white on TV, where the biggest problem was fighting over your curfew, getting a bad grade on a test, not being allowed to go to some party where, in the end, father knew best because some kids got in a car wreck either on the way there, or after.

Having a kitchen where there were no roaches living in the toaster, or the silverware drawer.  Where I could ask my mother for advice, and not have it be wrong, not have it break my heart.  Dreaming of and longing for a life of being saved and shepherded by your parents, like on TV.  Trusting their wisdom.  I wanted to trust mine.

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Filed under beauty, Catholic, childhood, daughter, daughters, dreams, faith, fathers, fish, god, jesus, Saint Teresa, stepfather