A Villanelle for My Mother
Ordinarily, I don't write poems. I write fiction, which, when I can get it published, has received wonderful reviews. Sales remain minimal. But that's what I do.
This year, I wrote sonnet for my father, who was turning 85. I couldn't think what else to give him. I started writing it in January. His birthday was March 29.
On March 15, he fell and suffered a concussion with "a slow brain bleed." By my birthday, April 5, he could no longer swallow. I flew to Idaho and helped my mother follow his directive for no intervention. We sat with him while he died, free of any fluids, nutrients, or antibiotics. To say it was harrowing is not an exaggeration. He died April 13. My mother married him when she was 17. She's baffled and distracted now and I'm going to spend the next 6 weeks with her. For her birthday, I attempted a villanelle. I hadn't planned on it, but two lines between my own daughter and me when she received her masters in statistics last summer kept running through my head. The first two lines of the villanelle are what we said to each other. I wrote it in two days, crying most of the time. While composing it, another element arose. Nearly 30 years ago, my youngest sister, who was eight, was killed by a drunk driver.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
That she had heard it's short, so which is it?
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
This puzzle will prevail in heads
And hearts until the day it's finished.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
Perhaps lifespan relieves annoying dread,
Unlike the instant end--torture, isn't it?
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
But if you suffer shocking loss within it,
Oh yes, it tears, it rips, and never quits.
When I said Life is long, my daughter said,
Who measures Life in any given minute--
No one. All time enforces awful exits.
In truth, I said, our Life has hard, fast limits.
Enjoy the moment! Love exists ahead:
Surprise! A birthday party, candles lit!
Hurray for you--and Dad--beyond all limit!