I shut my eyes in order to see. (Paul Gauguin)
Umbrellas and I don’t get along well. I either leave them in the car or under the table at a restaurant. Several years ago, I published a poem on a For a Better World site, AEQAI, maintained by Saad Ghosn. I remembered some of those narrative poetry lines while I was driving today, rain falling, my umbrella in the trunk, my thoughts recalling the many broken people I know. Peace upon all. Without judgment.
I find an old, bent umbrella
in the back of a closet,
and remember a story
about my great aunt,
the one who lived
with my grandmother.
I heard she refused to go to school,
rain or shine, without her umbrella.
Grandma laughed when she told me,
one of those tired adult laughs
I didn’t understand.
She never knew why
her little sister feared rain.
And I wouldn’t dare ask.
My great aunt talked about men
as if they were born as sooty coal
covered with flesh.
Genetically messy, crude, loud.
Sports without a soul.
Since I was her only niece,
my aunt sought my ear.
I tolerated her out of pity.
I pictured her as a child
at the turn of the twentieth century.
paired with her umbrella,
two closed slender shapes
surrounded by bullies
who gave fuel to her opinions.
She learned bitterness somewhere,
wore it as a badge of a holy crusade.
In the fifties Grandma took in a boarder,
a quiet man who ate corn flakes
doused with warm water.
My aunt latched her door at night,
and moved a bookcase
in front of it.
Then one night after Grandma died
I stayed overnight with my aunt,
gave her some company.
I recall her bony frame in dull, plain pajamas,
all femininity pressed out,
as she told me about an uncle,
or was it a cousin?
You won’t believe what he did to me?
By then I was old enough to guess.
But, not old enough to know
the burden of that knowledge wasn’t mine.
I remained silent.
Her secret stayed bound
within flannel and hate.
She died in a nursing home.
Alone.
I imagine a new scene as I discard
the useless umbrella from my closet.
What would have happened if
I could have borrowed a few years
of experience from my future,
risked touching the pain in her eyes,
and asked, what happened?
My old umbrella’s hollow spiked bones stick out
through torn, split fabric.
I can’t fix it. Yet, strange,
I feel an odd sadness for all things
that no longer have a chance to recover.
I think that each of us is a broken umbrella, you don’t know what is broken until you open it — or you find that it won’t open. With every person I encounter, be it the briefest of encounters, I try to know that each carries “hollow spiked bones” that tear at the fabric of their being.
Thanks for this wonderful poem 🙂
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Bill, what a beautiful response.
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