The Median Sib

I actually posted this last week - for about five minutes - but then deleted it because I wasn’t sure I wanted to put it in my blog. It’s a poem, and poems are personal. I mentioned to my children a couple months ago that after moving last year I had only recently located my notebook of poetry. I had written poems for each of them many years ago and when I found my notebook, I emailed their poems to them. Both of them had the same reaction: “I didn’t know you wrote poetry!” The operative word is “wrote”. Past tense. All of my poems are at least 10 years old. My sister, Joan, posted a poem in her blog, and that made me feel that if she could post hers, then I could post mine. She gave me the courage. Her poem is about our father. The one I’m sharing here is about him, too. After going through every poem in my poetry notebook (which isn’t a tremendous undertaking since there are only eleven of them), I didn’t see a single one that I’m completely comfortable in sharing. But the others are all either too depressing, too personal, or just plain too strange to post. However, I’ll share the one about my father, Charles. It’s a stream of consciousness, freeform poem. I wrote it almost thirteen years ago.

To Daddy
Are you up there, Daddy?
Sitting up in heaven
Watching us here on earth?
Laughing at us, wondering about us,
Or crying?
Life is such a crazy hodgepodge
Happiness - sadness - exhilaration - depression
All put together
Are you there? Seeing . . . and caring?

I miss you
I miss telling you about my victories and defeats
You always were interested
And wanted to know more.

Where are you?
I don’t understand death
I remember dreaming about you several years ago
In my dream, we were at the Flea Market
I heard your voice, your laugh
I saw your face - you were alive
I want that dream again

Mother told me that when she was nine years old
And her father died
She prayed that she would dream of him
Because she knew then, and only then, she could see him.
I’m so much older than nine now
Yet I still want to dream of you
I want to experience again the peace of your unconditional love.

I remember one day I visited you - I was a parent myself then
I had the flu, and you tucked a blanket around me
Set me in front of the fire and cared for me
One brief evening so many years ago
And yet I remember - with longing.

Maybe you were the only person who was completely on my side
No judgments. No expectations. Just acceptace - and love.

When I was a little girl
You were the one I wanted to comfort me when I was hurt or sad
I was special. I was Cabbie.

You were the one who told us stories
Of growing up with four brothers
Your adventures skinny-dipping in the Yellow River
Your near-miss in the lightning storm with Uncle James.

We children would crowd around you
In your little office behind the house
“Tell us more,” we’d plead,
And you’d oblige.

One Friday in 1986, you were visiting us
And we were at the Grand ol’ Opry laughing together
The next Friday we were gathered around your grave.
Life changes forever too quickly
No time for a final “I love you”
Or a smile, or a good-bye.

I want to drive up in your driveway again
And see you waiting for me
“There’s my Cabbie,” you’d say
And I would be a little girl once more
Safe, protected . . . in the arms of fatherly love.

(written in February 1993)

I’m in Georgia visiting my mother this weekend. This afternoon we attended a party celebrating the wedding of Jared and Lim. Jared is the son of my first cousin, Jane, and her husband, Warren. There was a big crowd, fantastic barbecue and great fellowship. I got to visit briefly with my Aunt Rowena. However, the really impressive thing was their house. I fell in love with their house. Such a gorgeous, open, log home — furnished so beautifully. Maybe some day I’ll build myself one similar to it. One of the things I enjoyed was walking through Jane’s house and seeing photos of people I dearly loved — my Mama Baird and my Uncle Tom and Jane’s older brother, Jack — and pictures of Jane when she was a little girl and we all called her Jane Ann. I loved seeing the photos of Uncle Tom and Aunt Rowena when they were young. It was an enjoyable day of visiting family and celebrating a young marriage.