I followed today's prompt to write a poem about two people that shouldn't have ever met. I decided to write about myself and my grandmother because truth is stranger than fiction. Because life is stranger than fiction, and against all odds, my grandmother and I met and I am who I am because of it.
Truth is political.
A Holding
I was a baby, so I don’t remember
our unlikely first meeting, but I’m sure
you held me as grandmothers all do,
even you could do that, but my first
real memory of you is permanently
housed in an elderly care home
when mental institutions went out
of vogue in the 90s. I watched you
as you stared past me, and I never should
remember you, but I do and so poems
arrive at whatever hour they wish.
When someone lacks a voice to speak
for themselves, the echo of their silence
grows louder each generation. It took two
generations to build vibration and it took me
thirty-three years to listen. I never should have
met you, but I did and I love you and I love
what you could’ve been and I understand
why you never could be everything you wanted
to become, but I love you for everything I am,
for every poem that is your voice speaking to me,
how I always wanted you to speak to me but couldn’t.
I never should have met you, but I met you again
in poetry, which is just another way of seeing you
in this continuum. You are not lost. I am not found.
You are poetry and so am I, and you are endless
and I am endless and our words are infinite, and
each word is us meeting again and again, and each
poem is you holding me, rocking me for the first
time as if you kissed me and called me yours.
May is mental health awareness month. We should always be aware of our mental health, regardless of month, and also never ignore how our states and our federal government ignore the most disadvantaged and vulnerable of our population. My grandmother was paranoid schizophrenic and never lived a full life. She was institutionalized and when institutes were abolished, she was homeless for years until her daughters were old enough to care for her. She is one of the lucky ones. There are very few lucky ones.
As a poet who has vast layers of mental health history in her family, your poem really spoke to me.
This...
"...and so poems
arrive at whatever hour they wish."
And this made me want to weep.
"...and each
poem is you holding me, rocking me for the first
time as if you kissed me and called me yours."
This is a touching tribute to your grandmother. I especially liked the lines.
' in poetry, which is just another way of seeing you
in this continuum. You are not lost. I am not found.
You are poetry and so am I, and you are endless
and I am endless and our words are infinite, and
each word is us meeting again and again, and each
poem is you holding me, rocking me for the first
time as if you kissed me and called me yours. '