A Ship Half Empty

Linking with Flash Fiction 55 over at Verse Escape 

where we write a poem or what inspires us in exactly 55 words.

Thank you Joy for a wonderful prompt!

Come join us everyone!

I dream of far places

where gulls glide Atlantic Seas like ships

there I am alone among multitudes

yet the only voices I can hear

are ghosts of yesterday

old and ragged I whisper

 the tireless question

 why no matter where I venture

I remain a child hoping for my mother to hear my cry.

The Remembering

"I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me her real name was grief."
~ Isaac Rowe

My mother was many things in this life.  One of those things was an artist, another was pianist, and yet another was animal lover.  For many years I forgot about all of these.  All I held onto was the loss and the hurt in dealing with her death.  I could not let go of the question, why did she not care enough to live, if not for herself, at least for us?  You see, my Mom passed of the same thing Karen Carpenter did.  She had congestive heart failure due to malnutrition. 

It was 1972, my first day of 4^th grade, and my last day to see her.  I do not remember tears; I only remember leaving school early to see her in the hospital, and her passing right before our eyes.  The last 2 years before that time, are very vague and I remember only bits and pieces, but I know that I lost her in many ways long before that day.  I am certain of that because of my reaction to her passing away. There were no tears.  If I could find a way to describe how I felt it would probably be like being an empty vase, that once held beautiful flowers many years before, and with time the feeling of emptiness had simply become both familiar and greater.

Through the years, there was a quiet anger that lulled beneath the surface.  I usually did not acknowledge it.  It was as much a part of me as my feet that kept me running from the pain, and my hands that do not always let go of what they should.  It loyally stayed by my side, as I ignored it like an unwanted child.  

Then in my early adulthood, I became a mother myself; going through childbirth, and all the many experiences of having a little person in one’s care.  It was during that time, in the joy and the adjustment that my quiet friend grief came forward to show its true face.  For the first time I found myself crying.  Something I had done very very little of in the past.  Anger had been my main emotion, and that was only when I let myself think on what had taken place all those years ago.  Every milestone my little one had; learning to say words, walking, his 1^st birthday, and even daily things, made me feel a deep sadness inside.  It was then that I truly realized all that I had lost. 

Many years have passed since that time of my life, and I am no longer that angry young woman, or lost little girl.  I have long since made peace with my mother and my memories of her and the time that led up to her passing.  I have let go of that bitterness that filled my heart with sadness, yet now I am so much more than what I was.  My life is full with what is and not empty with what is not.  I am a writer, a dreamer, a mother and grandmother, an animal lover, and so much more.  In many ways, I am a reflection of my mother. 

Many things in our lives define us; molding us into the people we become, yet our hopes fears, and dreams can fade, grow, or change with time.  What we have and what we lose in this life can either widen or lesson our view of what is behind and ahead of us.  I spent many years confined by the loss I did not want to face.  Angry at a person that could no longer defend their actions.  Grief is a heavy coat that can smother and weigh us down, and everyone handles it differently.  It is a part of life that we all have to face, and as painful as it is, I have come to realize that it makes one value life all the more.

These days I frequently find myself thinking about my mother . . . what it would have been like if she had still been around and what she would have thought about my life. Would she have been proud of me?  Over the last couple of decades I have been trying to learn to draw mainly because she was an artist and I admire that so much.  You see, now I remember all those precious things --  all the attributes she had that were so amazing. The more I remember these things, the more I realize what matters most in this life--cherishing the ones we love and embracing all of who they are; the good, the difficult, and the beautiful.

©Carrie Van Horn 2019

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.
 ~Henry Van Dyke

What Remains

 

Google Images

 

I originally posted this 5 years ago.  In observation of Mother's Day and my birthday, I wanted to bring it back to life again.  Happy Mother's Day everyone. :-)
 

 

Linking with Imaginary Gardens for the Tuesday Platform. :-)
 

 In search of my mother's garden, I found my own. ~Alice Walker

 

 

  

 

 

Time burns her memory like a building on flame and my heart keeps re-entering to salvage what could be lost soft cuddles pushes on the swing thoughts shared all return to view I cradle them out of the wreckage with the tenderness of a mother yet fervor of an explorer certain I will retrieve something new that had been once consumed by time's tarnishing way

one vision at a time relinquished like a photograph taken out from underneath the protective glass yet they still fade tattered at the edges and dust in between reflecting the weakness of my memory to capture every moment like a camera but I will carry on with the recovery holding on to each one like a child's hand afraid of losing them out in the open streets for I am the guardian and sole heir of them all and I will carry them with me in homage.

 

 

 

I turned 47 this year; the age my Mother was when she passed away.  I never realized at that time how young she truly was.  She never saw us kids grow up, attended our graduations, had the pleasure of participating in our weddings, or held her grandchildren in her arms.  Now I am very aware of the blessings that I have to see my grown children, and have the opportunity to watch my grandchildren grow up.  When I look at myself in the mirror I do not see the many wrinkles, or all the grey hairs, that seem to accumulate like dust on a picture frame.  I see the reflection of my mother's smile, and her heart that lives on in my life.

 

 



All God's Children

Smoldering Fires,Clarence Holdbrook Carter, 1904-2000

Columbus Museum of Art

Magpie #64

My mother is a poem
I'll never be able to write,
though everything I write
is a poem to my mother.
~Sharon Doubiago

Like a mother God holds us in His arms both protecting and preparing us for the fires of life we may face

yet like a small child we wander off too impatient to listen and wait

like an old man experience reaches out with the wealth of ware and wisdom within it's hands

yet like a capricious scarf in the wind we either take hold or drift off unaware of the lesson we had.

~I have always believed that you can take two different people, and give them the same experience,same mother, same sphere of influence, and same adversity, and one will choose to go with the flow and strive through the situation, and the other will kick scream and fight there way through causing themselves and those around them nothing but strife. ~

Somehow in my prompt I strayed away from the mother theme a bit, and went more with life, and choices, but I do want to take the time to observe  Mother's Day for all women, not just those that have given birth.  Having lost my mother at a young age, I can testify to the fact that most women have such a nurturing spirit regardless if they bear children or not.  Throughout the years I have had so many women I have known become a mother figure, and give support and guidance when it was needed in my life.  They have been a blessing and a force of hope in the empty places of my past.  So to them I say thank you, and to all women everywhere I want to say

Happy Mother's Day!

What Remains

Magpie #37

Also sharing with beautiful Emily at Imperfect Prose take a look you will be blessed.

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

Time burns her memory like a building on flame and my heart keeps re-entering to salvage what could be lost soft cuddles pushes on the swing thoughts shared all return to view I cradle them out of the wreckage with the tenderness of a mother yet fervour of an explorer certain I will retrieve something new that had been once consumed by time's tarnishing way

one vision at a time relinquished like a photograph taken out from underneath the protective glass yet they still fade tattered at the edges and dust inbetween reflecting the weakness of my memory to capture every moment like a camera but I will carry on with the recovery holding on to each one like a child's hand afraid of loosing them out in the open streets for I am the guardian and sole heir of them all and I will carry them with me in homage.

I turned 47 this year; the age my Mother was when she passed away.  I never realized at that time how young she truly was.  She never saw us kids grow up, attended our graduations, had the pleasure of participating in our weddings, or held her grandchildren in her arms.  Now I am very aware of the blessings that I have to see my grown children, and have the opportunity to watch my grandchildren grow up.  When I look at myself in the mirror I do not see the many wrinkles, or all the grey hairs, that seem to accumulate like dust on a picture frame,  I see the reflection of my mother's smile, and her heart that lives on in my life.

This prompt is for lovely Willow's Magpie Tales a great site for poets and writers.

The Empty Room

This poem was written many years ago by my stepdaughter Amber.  She lost her oldest child when he was merely 2 years old, but his smile lives on in our all our hearts, and in Heaven.

What good is a bed where no one will sleep?

And an empty room where one person weeps?

What good is a shirt that no one will wear?

Attached to memories of someone not there.

What good is a toy with no one to play?

Where laughter once was, but did not stay.

What good is a book that sits unread?

Filled with words that are no longer said.

What good is a picture where no one smiles?

As good as a mother without a child.

By Amber Whitworth
Written for Seth 

Oh So Close,

A closeness like that of a mother to a child
resembles being near to a rose garden;
Her sweet fragrance is strong, but her
oh so close thorns
always cut us more deeply.