I have hardened my heart;
Made a cave
I can hide away.
My flesh; bruised and dark,
sobs in silence,
You came later, bearing gifts from afar...
Some nativity story, you said; in recognition of me being
the chosen one.
Redeemer, and Saviour of your soul?
holding the hope you hungered for...
But I could not carry it.
Each little spark of faith, placed religiously in rapid motion;
Layer upon layer,
tear upon tear,
and sorrow upon sorrow.
You looked to me and believed your self would define
your better being
in a little child...
But I could not carry it.
"I wish you were like other mummies." I say.
And you are sadder still.
I see the other mothers with their children laughing.
I wish for my own fairy godmother;
Able to transform rags.
Cinderella's dress is blue with a bright bodice.
Joy is not squeezed out of her; she lives:
Reality on the cover of a single book.
I am sorry for my hard heart. I know now
it must have hurt you; the reality.
I pulled myself together in such a tight knot
in order to preserve my life.
I did not mean to make a stone of it.
I remember wanting you, on the coach back from Bexhill.
Lumps in my throat...(I had mumps),
but also bumps of sadness.
Looking out of the window, and seeing you in the distance
(though you were not really there, as we had not got back yet.)
I wanted to buy you some flowers; they were "Gypsophila"
(Commonly known as "Baby's Breath")
Small, white, and dry,
Then you were there,
I was glad to see you. You felt like my Mummy, and you looked after me.
But it didn't seem to last very long.
The flowers, quite possibly,
may have outlived you.
I must be forgetting so many good times,
I am sorry for that. I know they are there.
But I cannot help wrapping the gifts in the paper you gave me.
It was not soft pink tissue, but earth brown, and protective.
I wish it were different.
Maybe it's just too hard to think of the colours,
for they may only make the darkness darker?
"Commonly known as Baby's Breath"
In tight knots of white,
Clutch your bunch, in little hands...
Finger strands reach
as thin, fine, stalks
Know " Gypsophila " means gypsum- loving
I'm making my dry flowers soggy
But my flesh is warm.
I think you are in heaven now.
It being a safe place; I know you are fine.
I know your maker knows you
and holds your story within his own flesh;
Bound in holy suffering;
I know he knows my story, too...
Incomplete, but unravelling.
Unravelling as self-seeded flowers...
Small, and unpretending,
moisture loving, in the childhood garden.
Ever living, little eyes, meeting mine.
No need of nurture: Only spread
by finding crevice or gap
in which to place and plant
their fragile root.
Forget - Me -Nots
Lay their cloud-like carpet over the earth,
winking dots of timid,
"When the Creator thought he had finished giving
the flowers their colours
he heard one whisper; "Forget me not!"
There was nothing left but a very, small, amount of blue,
but the forget-me-not was delighted to wear
such a light blue shade."
I can hold my stone; I need not throw it...
I hold it,
Then bury it.
Not re-membered, exactly,
Jenny Meehan 2018