Tribute

I have mixed news for this post. I'll start with the easier and happier part. I got waitlisted at SIU. It's not an acceptance, but it still thrilled me, knowing that I was at least good enough for that. I love Murray, don't get me wrong, but SIU was my first choice for several reasons. And, on any other occasion, I'd probably ramble on and on about how exciting it was to be waitlisted and complimented by the professors I admired there. But the real purpose of posting was for a tribute.

I never post my poetry online. For obvious reasons, like the fact that anyone can steal it and pass it off as their own, but I wanted to share this one, because it isn't a poem so much as it is an apology or letter, and I feel like I want to put it out there. To show that she meant something. I'm giving this poem to her tomorrow, and I don't have any other intention for it. It's a first draft, and I don't have any plans to revise or submit it anywhere. I know it's flawed, but it was how I worked through my emotions today after learning that my grandma is dying. Her liver has failed, and there's only so much time left. And I was thinking that I have no idea what I could possibly say to her tomorrow, so I wrote it down.

I wanted to share this, because she's not my grandma by blood, but she's treated me more like family than half of my blood family ever has. She always did things with me when I spent the night with her, and she never made me feel like a dumb little kid or an outsider. She had a crazy sense of humor that could make anyone laugh, and I'm sorry that I won't hear it anymore. She wasn't afraid to talk about anything or do whatever she wanted. Sure, she was flawed, but who isn't? She made mistakes and bad choices, but who doesn't? We have to live with those all our lives, and I'm sure that's punishment enough.

But the way she treated me, I owe her. I've written several poems about her that I plan to incorporate into my thesis, but this one is just for her. And anyone that wants to read it, can, because I want to share her. I'll share it here, to her, to our family. Maybe I'll even read it out loud, if that's what she wants. But when my mom's mom died when I was in jr. high, I wrote a poem for her and read it at her funeral, and I'll never forget that, after Rosi read it, she told me she hoped that I'd write something as beautiful for her one day. And my writing was horrible then, but she still enjoyed it.

So, I wrote this for her today, because, even if she doesn't remember asking me for it, I do. I wish I could give her something more tomorrow, but it's the best thing I can think to give, and I hope she hears it and knows.

For Rosi

I've made this time for you,

a carving of the hours I missed before,

the seconds you collected in the pockets

of those nightgowns you wore,

and I wonder what the count is now,

how far I've fallen behind,

and I'm sorry, I don't mean

to make this about me,

because this moment is one

I've made for you out of the web

of years between us.

Once you asked me to write something

beautiful for you too, when you were gone,
but all that means is letting go,
and now I can't seem to think
of a single rhyme to justify who you were,
who you are to me.
I think of the span of time between
youth and when I grew too old and busy

to visit. It's shrouded in sorry's
and boxed memories I have only
to unfold to remember the clay
between my fingers and palms
that I molded, and it didn't matter
how ugly those figures were—

You loved them. And I remember
the quartz you gave me on a silver
necklace that I wore until it broke,
and I mourned that cut rock like it was diamond,

kept its remains in a lock box full

of trinkets and all my important things.

You made me so many gifts to replace it:
a Christmas stocking, a paper mache doll,
another necklace, and bracelets of shiny rocks.
We tie-dyed t-shirts and read our cards.
You listened to me like I was an adult,
and I felt wise beyond my years, valued and real.

I slept in your rainbow room,
and you played music to soothe me
to sleep after a long day of crafts and playing
with your baby guinea birds. You never scolded
for the mess, hugged me when I left,
and always asked that I'd be back.

So if I could give you anything,
it wouldn't be this poem, but time.
Time to change things, to go back,
or forward, or whatever it takes
to bridge these memories with more.

It's only a small piece of who she was, and just like with my grandma, Joan, I'll probably never know the whole story, but I think that's the benefit of poetry. You can discover people you know or knew in different ways by trying to understand them, their lives--by putting yourself in their shoes. For even just that short expanse of time, you feel closer to them. Writing this was what I needed today, and sharing it is what I feel like I should do. It's the broken record: you shouldn't take anyone in your life for granted. If I have nothing else to give, I'll give this. To her, to anyone else that needs it to remember happier memories.