We All Have A Little Dark in Our Light...

I’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT?
 
While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone.
 
And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous;  or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets.
 
The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html).

You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother?
 
But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem.
 
The tick tock is deafening.
Muscles ache from strain.
Rising sun.
Feet on cold oak.
Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists
of move over
and fuck yellow lights.
Undress.
Dress.
Leotard.
Bun just right.
Spray in place.
Grab an apple.
Keys?
Don't forget the milk for Mom.
Dash to the express checkout
and curse and hiss
Into the back head
of the too-chatty, blue hair,
fumbling in her too-big purse,
fingers not quick enough.
Pour a quick glass of red
to match cursory letters
on black and white
Times New Roman font
In teacher's ink.
Speed-dial family.
Snapchat friends
and try to breathe.
It's what you've waited for.
Except now,
the silenced whirring rush
tramples the solace
because you realize
that the only way
to stop
is to admit: Not anymore.
And you look to see
Irony
holding Time's hand
with a grim grin.
Every year.
One fewer thing to do.
One minute.
One second.
Closer to death.

It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole.