another holiday loomed ahead like a sharp curve she slammed on brakes tried to avoid the inevitable skid into the november downturn… as every muscle poised above the small square pedal of her heart seized she sat in seasonal darkness knowing that the brakes of this would fail leaving her sad and heavy with repeated questions …
she awaited the pre-destined outcome weakened by the weight of it unable to gain control of it again she weaved across the surface of slick roadsides wet with the rain of an evening’s soft tears she tried again and failed to brace herself with all that she had for the inevitable crash and burn as all attempts to bring a painful repetative collision to a halt failed again …..
warning lights blinked their soft yellow in the distance she passed each roadsign squinted with blurred vision and tried again to spell out the words of an unfamiliar language still not understood…she knew these warning signs even as the familiar blindness took hold the pierce hit its mark, taking her breath away taking logic with it she leaned into each sharp curve of yearning felt the rip and tear into flesh and muscle as her heartstrings were pulled away and she gasped again searching for her lost breath …
why is this she asked the question heavy on her lips the need for her family to define itself tore into her… what is the roadmap that drew them to opposite distances at times when others craved and planned together for this time of love and tradition? what diagramed design caught in the spidery glare of shattered glass left them unable to see what brought such dissonance how did dread and disdain replace the joy that threads families together on these, oddly defined holidays…
how did her hands fail to hold them, these daughters strangers to each other estranged in the art of sisterhood why did their vision of tradition blur so intensely reflecting in the headlights of what is family what left them impaled and molded by force assaulted by guilt and expectation as year after year they twisted in the steel of each other bent and damaged frames flying in such opposite direction….as if they were all strangers
unimagineable sadness struck hitting hard as she watched and explored how others walked these holiday roads year after year the importance of holidays spent together with joy and love is the routine of most…there is no joke in this no trained guilt no saying and doing what they think is expected just the simplicity of family laughing and sharing in tradition still, she looked around as others turned to the homes of their families with the joy and expectation of how it has always been drawn to the spark of warm fires burning their hunger, sated they filled their bellies and hearts showing the strength and mark of their love in weight and measure of time spent a meal prepared laughter love
without dignity and ashamed of the annual inability to explain the roots or history of her place at these tables or of its importance to those she loved she instead pondered the discord of stubborn sisters how enemy lines drawn in invisible sands from teen years became their only known tradition … and her unwelcoming of one sat strong on her shoulders evidenced by the stubborness and inability to forgive as passed down through bloodline too the judgment of a mother unable to forget the vision of bruises and tears on a daughter’s face, unforgotten…a violence, unforgiven
where is my family’s tradition she wept why do we sit as strangers at the tables of others… those who crave tradition and family remember past thoughts they recall a time of pre-motherhood musing as bellies rounded with new life growing inside they were certain that the reasons of holiday and tradition would always be held in regard with great love and togetherness…and certain of it they smiled anxious for the days to come certain too, in the knowing that these would be the times that would bring their own small, new families together no one alone or lonely all safe and happy in the time together and in this dream they would share one heart a true holiday
‘As if they all were strangers’
Even they
Beyond the family,
To those of the Daily ferment
With fervent betrayal
In the guise of admiration
And the hungry gleaning
Of a greater,
Genuine talent.
Among the altars, crucifixes,
Bunnies, Santa’s, mangers
The show goes on—
Down south,
Down there,
Where home once was,
Where the meaty stuff
Of poets has passed on
To the packaged,
Cleverly wrapped,
Bourgeois imagining
Of hard times,
And what the street must be like.
Except for those,
Who moved North
To the North Beach
Where,
The stunning,
Beautiful heart
Of the remembering wahini
Writes on.
Happy Thanksgiving! xxxooo Mandt & Boster