surviving
this first summer without
my mother
watering pruning adoring
her tall and rangy geraniums

It has been exactly three months today since my mom died; in some ways it feels like years. Missing someone who has been a part of your every day since you breathed your first breath is much different than missing a guy you break up with or a best friend moved away. It is a hole deep in the pit of your being that seems to continuously ache until it gets so big you know you have to find a way to let it out and grieve or you'll simply implode.

To me, my mother and geraniums are synonymous. It is probably one of my earliest memories: the colossal pink and red flowers of the tall and rangy geraniums gracing every window sill of our tiny little house. And probably one of the first things I ever did to help my mother was to go around and water them and pick off the dead leaves how she taught me. And in those last weeks, when she grew very weak, she was asking me to do it for her again. Three months later, I find great solace and comfort in this simple act. Instead of missing her, caring for her geraniums makes me feel close to her. It is one of the many small ways I have found to survive yet one more summer's day without her.

like a child
I am lost and looking
for my mama
between stark white apple blossoms
bees come alive

It has been one month now since my mother has died and I still cannot believe she is gone. Every day I am plagued by this need to find her--somewhere--anywhere--in the wind, in the flowers, beside her grave, sitting in her chair, in the smell of her clothes hanging in her closet or in the pictures stacked up on my desk that tell the story of her life. I am lost without her and looking, like I did when I was a child, for that safe touch, that familiar face, that soothing tone in her voice, right up until the day she passed. What bothers me most is not knowing WHERE she is. Everyone has their ideas: she's in heaven, she's with her parents now, she's preparing a place for us, she's with Jesus, she's inside of you, she's in your heart, she's in the birds that sing or the flowers that bloom or she's right beside you looking over you--but the truth is, these are all just guesses. Where is my mama really? Where has she gone? How can she just not "be" anymore? She was the love of my life, and I miss her with every breath.

this twelfth day
of mourning my mother
I drop tiny
black poppy seeds
into a warm softening earth

It all happened so fast I am left numb. We brought Mama to the hospital on the night of April 8; she was diagnosed with cancer the next day and died on Tuesday, April 14 at 1:00pm while I held her hand. Heartbroken, but also grateful for the days I was able to sit with her, stroke her hair and bring her comfort,love and peace. I have suffered many painful losses in my life, but none compare to this; my mother has been my biggest inspiration and my best friend for all my days. In every small thing that I do, even in planting these poppies (one of my mom's favorite flowers), I am reminded that life as I know it will never be the same.

This is the link to her obituary which I had the privilege of writing:

Shirley M. Bouchie

cutting
mama’s fine white hair
this windy spring day
our time together
slowly falling to the floor

My father is in rehab now and making very slow progress, but I know he is in good care so this at least eases my mind. My mother, however, seems failing every day; it is as if she is slipping from my hands just like the pieces of hair falling to the floor. Cutting her hair this morning seemed such an intimate gesture, such a simple task and I wanted so badly for it to be perfect. Ah, but nothing in life is perfect these days; hour by hour, I find myself letting it in, then letting it go, all these imperfections, all these big things and little things I have no control over--even my shabby, uneven pathetic attempt at a haircut. But as Mama says, perfect or not, "at least it's out of my eyes".

The Tanka Process

spring rain
I start a warm fire
for my mother
who sits in darkness
shivering for my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother alone
and shivering for my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother
alone and chilled without my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my mother alone
and chilled without my father

1. First, I begin with the subject, this vivid moment in my day: it is a rainy Monday and I am caught between taking care of both my parents, one in a hospital 30 miles away, 86 years old, with a fractured neck and fractured hip; the other housebound, 82 years old, alone all day and missing my father. I do various tasks for my mother before I'm off to visit my father, but lighting a wood fire in the fireplace seems to have the greatest significance, like I am bringing light and warmth to her dark and lonely day.

2. A few things about my first draft don't quite work for me, mostly its stark wording, so I change the format to read as a question. This works to show my personal role in trying to change my mother's mood. I have emptied her trash, brought her water and washed a few dishes, but none of those things really transform this gloomy, lonely morning for her the way the fire does.

3. The third draft only makes a slight change. I have not been happy with the word "shivering" since I began. I replace it with "chilled" because it conveys more emotion and mood--of the day, the situation, my mother's physical state and my emotional state. For me, it becomes the key word in the poem, the word that binds and connects to all other elements. When a word like this comes into play in any tanka, it strengthens the poem and brings it from good to better. I also change "for" to "without" to indicate the absence of my father for both of us. The only decision I struggle with is whether or not the word "alone" should drop down to the last line.

4. In the next draft, I streamline. I don't need to label my mother "poor"-that just strikes me as pathetic, and the poem speaks for itself, no need to conjure up sympathy. I also decide "alone" is best to use on the same line as "my mother" to describe her state. Quite clearly she is not "alone" if I am there, yet this is her mood. I also like putting "chilled without my father" on a separate line to indicate more than just my mother is "chilled" without him--it sets the mood of the entire poem.

My tanka don't always come to life in just four drafts; sometimes there are six or even more. This tanka seemed fairly easy to me, maybe because it was written so close to the actual moment, and seemed already to have a life of its own. Sometimes it happens this way.

Good Harbor Beach, Summer 1961

driving home
from the hospital
this same vision
of my father on a white sand beach
young and handsome in the summer sun

My father is in the hospital again. He fell in the bathroom early Thursday morning,was knocked unconscious and taken by ambulance. He fractured both his neck and his pelvic bone. So here we go again. David asked me this morning how I slept last night, and I was ashamed to answer "good"; maybe it was because of all the emotions or just knowing that my father was in good hands, or maybe because for the first time in more than the two weeks since he came home from rehab, I didn't have to sleep with an ear pressed to the floor. Whatever it was, I felt quite guilty to have slept at all when my father is laying once again in the hospital in pain. I started crying and wondering where we went wrong, how this could have happened and what I could have done to prevent it.

This poem comes from this re-occuring vision of my father on Good Harbor beach, in his swim trunks, head full of dark curly hair, tanned and wearing sun glasses. It is this picture of youth and vitality that keeps coming to me, this memory of a time when life seemed simple and safe and really perfect in many ways. I am just so sad to see my father lose his youth and with it so many other things we take for granted; like our smooth skin, our dark hair, our spry legs, our clarity of mind, and that feeling that we have so many endless sunny days ahead of us. In this vision of my father, he is younger than I am today. Ah, this letting go of people and of ourselves is such an ongoing process. But I'm trying hard to keep myself in the moment where joy is always stirring.