Is there a better question? This past week I searched for an answer to ‘Where is my Mother?’ But I couldn’t find one; I kept getting mired in unfathomable complexity. Yes, Mother was a complex person, especially in contrast to my father. But I needed to find another approach. Read the rest of this entry »
iced ground wind-whipped snow
mother squirrel looks for scarce food
huddled nestlings wait
* * * * *
She’s sitting on the frigid deck rail outside my kitchen window.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating hot breakfast.
Her nipples stand out—she has babies to feed.
Her coat is heavy, tangled, patchy, worn.
She watches me from her icy perch.
She seems anxious, haggard.
She doesn’t rest for long.
The babies are hungry.
So is she.
I can’t help thinking about Mother. Especially after we moved out of our communal Southwest home into our one-family Southeast home. Yes, it was quiet, less frenetic. Good for Mother’s health. But I wonder.
Being on our own as a family is a shock. Mother is still recovering from polio, finding ways to live life without bodily functions she can’t take for granted anymore. Yet no matter how she feels, we need to eat. Three times a day.
I think about our communal home. Here’s what Mother can’t count on anymore:
Granted, it wasn’t paradise. People had to get along with each other. Some seemed to do more of their fair share than others. But we weren’t hungry, and Mother wasn’t responsible for getting it all on the table three times a day.
Haiku written 12 January 2014
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 16 February 2014
Sister #3
It’s 1949. I’m 6 years old. Sister #3 is 6 months old and still nursing. She’s sitting on my parents’ bed with Father and me. He’s playing with her—a little game of reach and grab. He asks me to watch and see whether she’s moving her left arm. No, she is not. Read the rest of this entry »
I wish I knew. As a child I asked her to tell me her story. Sometimes she gave me bits and pieces, but she didn’t seem to think her story was very important. Especially if that meant talking about how she felt when she was growing up. Besides, there was always another baby in her arms needing attention. Read the rest of this entry »
I feel awkward making observations about being beaten. I don’t remember anyone talking with me about them, commiserating with me, comforting me or asking how I felt. After each beating I simply walked out of the room and right back into life. Read the rest of this entry »
I was groomed to be a victim. No one used those words, but that was the sad outcome of supposedly good intentions.
My father’s mission was to break my will. This wasn’t a secret. It was in keeping with biblical teaching as he understood it. One day he would answer to God about his efforts. I would have to answer for mine. Read the rest of this entry »
11 July 2012
man walking my way
across deserted playground
trees inhale . . . . . . . . hold breath
Is he safe? It’s 6:30am. What’s he doing here at this time of day? Looks like he’s been sleeping in the park. Rumpled work clothes—not very clean or stylish. He’s watching me. Thank goodness I’m wearing sunglasses. Read the rest of this entry »
This episode in my life was a smelly, rotting stench in me all the way through school, college and my first years of marriage. Even after I told my husband about it, I still smelled the old man regularly and without warning. It was a living, breathing, stinking rotten nightmare.
Despite this, I never wrote it down or reflected on what it reveals about me, much less about my relationship to my parents. I simply tried to put it away and let the past be the past. Done. Over. Finished. Time to move on. Read the rest of this entry »
thick roots tangled knots
barely hanging onto bank
drink deep waters
* * *
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 2 January 2014
Photo credit: DAFraser, October 2012
Hoyt Arboretum, Portland, Oregon
Some things are just plain wrong. No grand theological framework, no appeal to the Bible, and no wisdom of the church or its elders can ever make them right. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 