INSPIRED

I AM SHE… SHE IS ME

I gingerly uncovered the tattered cardboard box anticipating what I would find written on each paper inside. I knew there was some poetry, which she had written, but only imagined what those words would convey to me. I hoped that maybe one of them would reveal something to me that paralleled with myself. What were her dreams, what were her passions, what were her priorities? Here in front of me are poems written by someone I have never met. My father’s mother, a woman that died when he was only 11 years old. How could I have such desire to learn about someone I never knew? Someone whose hand I have never held. Someone whose voice I have never heard. Someone whose cheek I have never touched. Someone whose eyes I have never looked into; someone who is a part of me. Someone who I know in my soul… is much like me. I just know I would have liked her and she me.

I often fantasize about our conversations. I visualize us sitting on a swing hung from a wooden porch, rocking, sipping lemonade, and laughing on lighthearted summer afternoons. Never wanting our time together to come to an end. It feels so real in my dreams. When I am blissfully in this place, I think that I can smell her. I know she would have smelled like flowers, or at least that’s what I want her to smell like, like the first bloom on a spring morning. Or the lilacs that rim the streets near the porch with the wooden swing. I close my eyes tightly and imagine the softness of her hand like my favorite silk handkerchief. I am she and she is me.

She loved to write, just like I do. She had been scorned and suffered a painful divorce much like I had. I know she loved my father very much. She suffered and internalized her pain. Like me, she had only one son, whom she loved dearly, and raised him on her own. She had cancer when my dad was 9 years old, and frightening I too had cancer when my son was 9. She died, but I live. And now, we are connected, not by similar tragedies, but by a simple few poems. The poetry is a glimpse into her existence. While reading, I feel like I know her. Like I know her pain, her sorrow, but not her joys, her living. We both loved the same person so deeply, my father, the joy of her life.

Like her, I find myself expessing myself through poetry. I am a survivor and I am alive. Poetry helps me process and overcome the emotional pain we were both challenged by. I want to expand myself and, perhaps, to rise above the anguish, and find strength for her. I want to mark the tragedies and celebrate the triumphs. I know that is what she would want me to do. She is watching me, praying for me, coaching me.