He is thirteen, maybe
fourteen that day.
They are on
the street.
His mother stops
to talk to a man
then turns
to him.
“Do you know
who this is?
This is
your father.”
And the father
gruff and embarrassed
says
“I hear you’re not behaving”
He replies
“Who are you?”
With all the withering scorn
of the unloved
years.
A decade later
he asks her
“What was he like?”
And she tells him
how she was young and pretty
with prospects,
and how
he turned her head.
Meeting him
ruined everything.
She says,
“I wish I never
laid eyes on him.”
And doesn’t know
she is saying
she wishes
he was never born.
11 comments:
Oh wow. And ouch. This is a really good one, LJ.
Simply, wow.
Very powerful poem. You should submit it to a mazazine
(o)
Writers carry stories. Ours, theirs, yours. Sometimes, we take something out of the basket and put it down.
Thank you very much for your comments, all of you.
And every day, to my own amazement,
I say things that catch me offguard...and make me reassess what I am really all about.
Real painful process sometimes.
Awesome. And I love what you just said, above, about how writers carry stories: ours, theirs, yours.
Reminds me of what my mother-in-law said to her two sons:
Don't have children - they'll ruin your life.
It's exactly that kind of bullshit baggage that is killing my marriage.
Great poem. Cuts to the bone.
Hi Jamie.
I'm ok. It's a computer holiday, more or less. I'm feeling quiet - and I'm beading. Thanks for asking. Be back soon.
Linda
My mother told me I should never have children. I never quite realized that the heart of the message was, "I wish I hadn't." Despite telling me I was wanted. No wonder I so often wished I had not been born.
Zhoen.
I know something like this.
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