Features
poetry a shout out to of our pre-launch supporters CREATIVE NONFICTION what's next? call for submission themes! PHOTOGRAPHY BY AMANDA SULLIVAN
Spring 2015 / Volume 1 / Issue 1
our inaugural issue
(Sample)
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snapdragon: a journal of art & healing is a publication of
a special "Thank You" to our Pre-launch Supporters ...
Mary Alger Patricia Bailey Julia Banks Rebecca Cook Jaymie Eichorn Ellie Elledge Stewart Ellis John Fox Healing Ground Doris James Stephanie Lawrence-White Steve Sumerford Shaheen Syal Saunja Townsend Joya Wesley Brenda White John H. White William M. White, Jr. Amanda Zabel ... to our subscribers & our literary contributors ... to CBI-NC for hosting our brainstorming sessions!
Acknowledgements 3 Meet the Editors - Carla Kucinski 6 POETRY "Once in Desperation " - Bekah Steimel 9 "Keeping it Down" - Laurie Kolp "Generational Memory Theory" - Nicole Tong 10 "The Gate" - Laurence Holden "Starting Lines" -Ellie Elledge 11 "Healing" - Janet St. John "Not Today" -Alan Harris 12 "What Splinters" - Victoria Luther "Bald Woman" - John Grey 13 "Biopsy" - Jane Curran 14 "Matins" - Nicole Rollender "Old Griefs" - Alexa Mergen 15 "Crime and Punishment" - Edilson Ferreira "Negotiating with Migraine" - Anna Leahy 16 "Surreal" - Catherine Moore 18 "Homage to Scheherazade" 19 - Esther de Jong "On Calvary Hill"- James Croteau 20 "Things to Never Do or Say" - Valerie Bacharach 23 "The Jazz Harpist Considers a New Album" - Marianne Szlyk "One month since" - Carolyn Martin 24 "Bowled Over" - Stephen McCollum 25 "Ora Pro Nobis" (Pray for Us) - Joan Leotta 26 "Apology to my lymph node upon learning the final pathology" - Kathryn Paul 28 "The Other Side of Contrition" 29 - Colleen Wright "Healing" - Margaret Stetler 30 "Rituals for Losing Weight" 31 "After Arriving in Atlanta from a Year-Long Iraq Combat" - Paul David Adkins 32 "On Discovering J. Allyn Rosser’s Poem “Early in Any Century” in the Camp Victory, Iraq Recreation Center Donated Book Library" 33 "ABSORPTION" - Grace Ellis 34 Featured Photographer Profile 35 Upcoming Submission Call 36 CREATIVE NONFICTION "Portals"- Ivy Rutledge 37 "Releaseing Rainbows" - Mazzy Adams 43 "Invisible Healing" - Michael Lund 50 Contact 56
2 LOREM.COM/MAGAZINE
EMERGING AND ESTABLISHED WRITERS SHARE THEIR STORY OF ART AND HEALING. RAW. UNAPOLOGETICALLY. BEAUTIFULLY.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sometimes, the best ideas happen in the shower. For Jacinta V. White that’s where she had her “a-ha” moment to create an online journal. Now, 7 months later, she has turned that thunderbolt-epiphany into a reality with the launch of Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing this month. Jacinta joined forces with writer and counselor Cyndi Briggs to create the quarterly online literary journal as a platform for sharing “compassionate storytelling” that will inspire others on their healing journeys. I recently had the pleasure to talk with Jacinta and Cyndi about their new venture and their creative partnership.
Carla Kucinski: Let's start with the basics. What inspired Snapdragon Journal? Jacinta White: I moved to North Carolina in 2005 with the sole purpose of facilitating writing workshops to help people heal. The community embraced me and that vision. As I thought of a way to honor those I've met and the stories I've heard and the artistic creations I've witnessed, I wanted to expand the way I and The Word Project make room for that experience. I was in the shower one morning and it came to me clearly: Create an online journal. CK: Why snapdragon? What’s behind the name? JW: Snapdragon is the name of a plant. It's actually used by some for its healing elements. Once I read that the flower is often used as a remedy to help persons -- particularly those who experience extreme tension in the jaw and mouth -- to re-direct their powerful energy into its rightful channels. I knew it fit what I was hoping to create. CK: What's the vision for the journal? In what ways do you hope it will impact readers? Cyndi Briggs: Jacinta and I hope Snapdragon Journal will be a place where people can share their inner experiences and inspire others on their healing journey. Its pages are to be honest and uplifting, even in the pain that may be expressed. And it's exciting to share with the world some really powerful new and established authors. CK: What can we expect in this first issue? CB: Awesomeness. JW: So true. There are voices, in their own way, sharing their journey with us, creatively. Some of the pieces might make you cry. Some might make you laugh. Either way you know you're being touched. And there are some pieces that are raw and unfiltered, which I think is necessary for healing. There are poems in here that will make you swallow hard. CB: The creative nonfiction pieces that I chose are each different in style and tone. They too are moving in the way Jacinta talks about the poetry she's included. CK: How did you meet each other? Describe your creative partnership. JW: I believe it was when I facilitated a community poetry workshop at a tea shop in downtown Winston-Salem. CB: Was that the first time? Jacinta was always around, in presence or in name, since I moved back to Winston-Salem in 2010. I do remember attending that workshop and being blown away by her ability to connect with people through poetry. I spent more time with her as I participated in Leadership Winston-Salem, when she served as program director, and continued to attend her workshops and talk to her about writing. I feel so honored to be included in this project, as Snapdragon is really her heart and soul dream. JW: We've been on the same page with our vision for the journal, so the partnership has been incredibly easy. I can't think of anyone I would rather work with on something creative and therapeutic than Dr. Cyndi Briggs. CK: What's been most surprising about this journey from the seed of an idea to the launch of Snapdragon? JW: The tremendous response to our call for submissions. Writers from around the world are connecting with us. CB: Both published and new writers. JW: It was confirmation that people are looking for a place like Snapdragon Journal. CK: How do art and healing go hand-in-hand? JW: There have been many studies conducted that show how engaging in art helps lower blood pressure, releases stress, builds community, reduces loneliness when done in group settings, reduces symptoms related to chronic pain and cancer, etc. So, there's the physical evidence that art helps heal. I believe too that there is a spiritual and emotional element that creating art connects with that brings us wholeness. CB: And for me, as a counselor, I see the benefit of talking through life's difficulties. But writing, art, music ... all these art forms bypass the verbal ways we typically process our emotions. I feel that art connects more immediately to the heart, to emotions. . Writing and art give us a container into which we put our difficult experiences and our pain. So when we express ourselves through art, both the process of creating the piece and our reaction to the content can lay the foundation for healing to occur. CK: When did you first experience the power of art and healing? CB: I was an artist before I was a writer. I loved to draw when I was a child and minored in art in college. Making art was transcendent for me - it lifted me up out of whatever day-to-day worries I felt. It was like prolonged meditation. JW: It's no secret -- I've made my life's work based on how I first experienced art and healing. It was after my father suddenly passed in 1996. Writing poetry was the only way I knew to pray the heaviness. I was in that much pain. I didn't know at that moment that "art" was the catalyst for my healing. It was a few years later when I went back to read my poems that I realized poetry had been my lifeline. — As told to Carla Kucinski Carla Kucinski is a writer, journalist and blogger who lives in Greensboro. She writes what’s in her heart at http://bookendsblog.com.
Meet THE EDITORS
Jacinta V. White
FIRST LOOK
Cyndi Briggs
Laurie Kolp, author of Upon the Blue Couch (Winter Goose Publishing, 2014), serves as president of Texas Gulf Coast Writers and belongs to the Poetry Society of Texas. Laurie’s poems have appeared in more than four dozen publications including the 2015 Poet’s Market and The Crafty Poet. lauriekolp.com
Once in Desperation By Bekah Steimel Once in desperation a gritty prayer came alive and clawed its way past my lips and still you died leaving me wondering what ingredients I left out like the specifics of a spell spoken out of order again in desperation I applied the soothing balm of religion to the open wound you inflicted when you tore us apart and still the pain persisted and spread through me like a plague I existed in isolation until poetry found me and taught me to medicate myself and air out that festering wound with the remedy of my own written scripture Keeping it Down By Laurie Kolp And my healing is open curtains no longer laden in dust-filled, dank rooms overtaken by thoughts dark as a corner shadow where worn thin rank carpet once molded me savoring spoon-fed peanut butter glued to the roof of my mouth, puckered lips from dill pickle relish if I want that, too the freedom to swallow the sun and keep it down tucked away in my heart, my secret from within as radiant as the smile I share with you today.
Bekah Steimel is a 34-year-old writer living in St. Louis, whose poems have been published globally. www.bekahsteimel.com | @BekahSteimel.
Generational Memory Theory By Nicole Tong When she finds herself apologizing To the daughter she doesn’t have, It’s because scientists found Mice trained to avoid a scent As sweet as cherry blossoms Passed down the anxiety Its sweetness induced For two generations, which proves The mice’s offspring and its after that Would avoid the scent, despite Never having experienced that sweetness. When she asks you why her body Hasn’t let her have children Don’t tell her God has a reason. Tell her you’re sorry you didn't know What to do with the fear of the man Who is her father, for the smell Of cigarettes and motor oil He could never wash from his hands So that when he touched you, There was something toxic about it Every goddamn time. (The science of "Generational Memory Theory" from the December 2013 BBC news article “Memories Pass Between Generations” by James Gallagher.) Nicole Tong’s writing has appeared in American Book Review, Cortland Review, Yalobusha Review and others. Her chapbook My Mine will be published by Finishing Line Press this year. She lives and teaches writing in Northern Virginia. nicoletong.com The Gate for Honor Woodard By Laurence Holden The gate of knowing is hinged, she said upon the edge of sleep. It is not mere foolishness that makes this vagabond seeker wear one of her night slippers into the day. It is the footwear of all poetic dreamers. Stepping into the light offering her dream hand into another hand’s dream, she says: we are never alone in this wakefulness. (First published in "The Reach of Song: The Poetry Anthology of the Georgia Poetry Society," 2010.) L.aurence Holden is a poet/painter living in the Southern Appalachians, drawing his work from his connection to the land there. More of his multimedia work can be viewed at http://www.drawingfromourowntruenature.info
Ellie Elledge is a poet and writer residing in the foothills of North Carolina. Her work has appeared in All About Women magazine and Kakalak: Anthology of Carolina Poets.
Starting Lines By Ellie Elledge mindful of the broken pavement, we stepped into the half-light above chalk outlines drawn, elementary clouds for what was stolen, lost trading paperbacks for the songs we carried, stand-ins for the secrets we could not tell one another, clues to the lines around our eyes, believing we recognized a savior Healing By Janet St. John It requires looking deep, inwardly, to ask yourself everything. To listen. To accept the honest answers given from the soul. It means stepping outside yourself to see out-of-body, from above, circling round, trailing after, sitting quietly beside. It is a process. It can take years or lifetimes. It can mean turning yourself inside-out, raw innards exposed, Lady Godiva bare. A mockery, an exhibition, a wonder. Or it can be silent, slow, the intimate assistance of something, someone from beyond yourself, perhaps yourself, entering your sick chamber, laying hands, whispering confidences, sweet wisdom you both know, telling you, “Hush. It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’ll be well in no time.”
Janet St. John is a published poet and freelance writer/book reviewer. “Healing” appears as part of an elegiac poetic sequence in her as yet unpublished first novel.
3 MAGAZINE NAME
Not Today By Alan Harris The sand on the beach recognizes her footsteps as each grain moves aside out of respect and appreciation for her loyalty Her gait is more cautious than the year before as the sea gulls pay attention in hopes she’ll spill the contents of her picnic basket The lifeguard tips his sunglasses as she returns a smile like strangers do who understand that there are bonds in familiarity All the while waves caress her feet flirtatiously carrying messages from Virginia Wolff and Edna Pontellier With her pockets free of stones yet full of stories so she smiles at the invitations and whispers …Not today What Splinters By Victoria Luther Draw a circle in sand for the isolated grief, seize an island for shameless shipwreck – find your feet again, admire the hands chafed from clutch of driftwood. Be buoyed up by what splinters.
Alan D. Harris is a 60 year old graduate student working on his MSW. Harris writes poetry, plays and short stories based primarily on themes of aging.
Victoria Luther is an aspiring North Carolina poet who believes in the transforming power of words. She hopes to inspire others to find the solace from grief that art offers.
Bald Woman By John Grey There was this pseudo-science called phrenology, I tell her. People read fortunes by feeling the bumps on their subjects' heads. It was astrology with a human skull for its constellations. She smiles. Her future prognosis, she reckons, doesn't require touch. One look at her frail white dome should be enough. She makes bald jokes. I laugh. She says the light's low so she doesn't blind me. When a man's hairline recedes, luckily, gravitas rides to the rescue. But somehow, we've instilled in a woman's locks a kind of sacredness. It's her cathedral. Both sexes worship there. Poor Tess. Her body's eaten up inside and we're focused on the part of her that's diminished only by the eye. She reckons she might buy herself a bright red wig. A clown has to start somewhere. Or maybe something gray, severe. Coils of authentic wise beyond her years. How about blonde. A bombshell. Why not? Someone set off a bomb inside her, didn't they? In the end though, she decides to leave her head exactly as it is. Naked and clean like where this is headed.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.
Upcoming Call for Submissions Poetry Creative Nonfiction Photography (just added!) April 1-30 (published in June): "Bones, Stones & Words" July 1-31 (published in September): "Your Wild and Precious Life" October 1-31 (published in December): "The Art of Creating" To submit, view guidelines on our website at www.snapdragonjourmal.com/submit. Submissions only through Submittable.
“We enter the natural world through different portals. We do not have to agree on the best way. But we enter together to find our place in time, to have a sense of who has come before and who someday may come. And to be fully with our children, in this time.” —Richard Louv, from his essay “The Frog Who Fell through Time”
By Ivy Rutledge
Portals By Ivy Rutledge
Creative nonfiction no
My father greeted me with flowers at the airport when I came for my first visit as an adult; I was nineteen and hadn’t seen him in years. I got off the plane and saw him waiting for me, silhouetted against the sunshine. In the months following his death, I tried to capture every scrap of memory so I could make sense of our relationship, and I kept coming back to this one. I saw him there, his brown hair edging his round bald spot, his wire-frame glasses, his familiar stance, and I felt the love and security that only a dad can offer. As a young child, I thought my dad lived at the airport, he traveled so much. Then when I was seven, my parents got divorced. A few years later, my brothers, Eric and Brian, and I spent Christmas Day with him. The highlight of the day was opening our presents, and my dad had gotten me a stack of albums. I took the first one off the stack and used my fingernail to slit open the thin plastic across the opening. We put it on the record player. The first song was “Born to Run,” and when I heard Bruce Springsteen’s gravelly voice and the too-slow rhythm of the song, I barely held back the tears that had been building up all day. In my lap was everything that Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded. In spite of his good intentions, my father had gotten it wrong. And not just wrong, but completely wrong. I was ten and completely smitten with Rick Springfield. He must have started with that information and lost a few syllables along the way. I pretended to be happy, but he could tell it wasn’t right. We were just a few years into the new relationship my parents created with their divorce. I had only been six or so when he moved away to Florida, as far away from Rhode Island as he could get it seemed. I now know that he had gotten a new job, and that he moved there before the divorce, but as a child all I knew was that he was far away. Thirty years later when he died, there was still a distance between us that we had never managed to bridge. But on that Christmas Day in 1982, he made an effort. We spent the day at my grandfather’s new house, where Dad was staying while he was in Rhode Island. My grandfather had just gotten married, and the house was full of people we didn’t know. So my brothers and I played outside all afternoon, freeze tag and kick the can. That night I slept on the floor in a room off the kitchen. Piles of boxes and furniture loomed around me, and finally I had privacy to cry. The summer after the Bruce Springsteen/Rick Springfield debacle, my stepfather got a job transfer, and my family moved to North Carolina. My first period started that summer, the day before Dad arrived to drive us to Florida. He surprised us with a stop in Atlanta for a day at Six Flags, a theme park with lots of water rides. Yes, Aunt Flo and I rode the flume together, maxi pad and all. I waddled off the ride and tried to look natural. “Dad, I’ll be right back. I need to go to the bathroom. Uh, can I have a quarter?” “Sure,” he dug around in his pocket. I avoided eye contact. I grabbed it and rushed off. Eric and Brian had a great time that day, but I mostly moped. I was eleven, having my period, and my dad had no clue. From Atlanta, we drove on to his apartment in Tallahassee, where he lived with his girlfriend, Sue. During the day, Dad and Sue went to work, and Brian and I were left to fight over the remote control while Eric played with the computer. On the weekends, though, we had fun outside, where Dad was in his element. He took us to Wakulla Springs, which is one of the deepest springs in the world. While my brothers took turns jumping off the high diving platform, I spent hours by myself, spinning around watching how the ripples in the water made a deep swirly dress that swept out and touched everyone. We got ice cream and went out for a tour on the glass-bottom boats, watching life down below the water’s surface. Most of my childhood followed this pattern of my dad taking us on adventures during our summer vacation, alternated with sparse contact during the school year. Some years he forgot our birthdays, until it became the norm. He rarely paid child support, leaving my mom to figure out how to pay for braces and back-to-school shopping. It wouldn’t be until the aftermath of his death that I’d assign the proper value to our tubing trips down Florida rivers and camping trips in upper New York State. I decided that his mistakes needed to take a backseat to the way he shared his portals into the natural world. These are my happiest memories of him, his legacy. If I focus hard enough, I can remember my dad’s laugh. I wonder how long I’ll be able to remember it. On one of our adventures, we went canoeing on a wide river somewhere in the Florida panhandle. While we were paddling our way, Dad would point out the turtles basking on logs or different birds at the edge of the water. And when he pointed to a floating log a few yards off and said, “See that alligator over there? They’re everywhere around here,” I panicked, whined, and clutched Eric. They laughed that I fell for it, but I blame my nearsightedness. It really did look like an alligator, I protested. Dad’s laugh was your classic “tee hee hee” and his shoulders shook. I can hear his laugh ring out over the water, and then fade away. * The summer visits faded away too as we all got older. Dad wrote to me when I turned 18, a letter that accompanied his court-ordered payment. Mom had succeeded in getting us a final payment from him to make up for the years of lack of support. He let me know that he was looking forward to things being different for us now that I was an adult and out on my own. A year went by, nothing changed, and I met a guy named Steve whose love for Bruce Springsteen matched my loathing. Never one to leave a challenge unmet, I dated Steve for a while. He never claimed to love me, but he thought I had the potential to be the perfect girlfriend. Steve loved baseball, Miller Lite, and the Boss. I loved bare feet, thrift stores, and teasing Steve. I’d switch off the Boss during his parties to play some Jane’s Addiction, giggling at his dismay. Once when he wondered why I was such a mess, I told him my Bruce Springsteen story, and about how much I missed my dad. Our relationship lasted long enough for me to realize that I didn’t aspire to be Steve’s perfect girlfriend, and for him to give me the parting gift of a plane ticket to Florida. Off I went to visit my father to reconnect, courtesy of Steve and Bruce. So there we were at the airport, both ready to try again. He and Sue had gotten married and bought a house in Havana, a town a few miles outside of Tallahassee. We had a chance during the drive to be alone and talk. He was proud of the life they had made together, out in their six acres of woods. Over the course of the weekend, we got to know each other. The three of us spent an afternoon in downtown Havana visiting antique shops, and I picked out a white knobby vase for the flowers he had given me. We took a long walk through the woods, and my father pointed out this tree and that one, talking about the sights and the trail with the intimate knowledge of place that comes with having your own land. I came home to my college apartment feeling grounded and hopeful. After that trip we had another two decades of erratic visits and phone calls, although he was present for my important moments: my wedding and the births of my children. My husband, Gerry, and I experienced the premature birth of twins. Andrew and Stella were each only two pounds and were immediately transported to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of another hospital. Andrew experienced a brain bleed on his second day, and when I finally had a chance to see him, he was hooked up to tubes and machines. The NICU team had placed Stella at the other end of the room, so we had to walk back and forth between the babies. We spent a week in consultation with surgeons, social workers, family, and finally found ourselves sorting through all of the information and feelings with a hospital chaplain. We sat in a small beige consulting room, Gerry and me on one side, and the chaplain on the other. It was time to decide whether to withdraw medical care for Andrew. The conversation circled through medical scenarios and spiritual beliefs, with long periods of silence and crying. In the midst of the pressure and misery, the phone rang. We ignored it, and it kept ringing. Eventually Gerry answered it, “Hello? Uh, yeah … we’re meeting with the chaplain now … she’s right here, yes … I’ll let her tell you … “ and he handed me the phone. Of all the people it could be, it was my father, who had somehow tracked us down in the hospital. I didn’t know where to begin, what to say, or how to explain. I couldn’t invite him into my intimate moment and ended the call. Months later, once we had Stella home from the hospital and our grief for Andrew had settled, Dad and Sue came for a visit. We spent rare time together talking through problems, sharing baby tasks, cooking and sharing meals—doing the things that families do. Over the next few years we remained close, Gerry and I had another son, Sam, and they visited their grandchildren as they were able. Then the closeness faded. As I grew older and my responsibilities grew, so did the distance between me and my father. I was entering a stage of life he had no experience with: raising children. Gerry and I worked to provide our children with a healthy, stable home, and I took the challenge seriously. My spiritual path—and subconsciously, my father’s influence—led me to a love of the natural world, which I worked to cultivate in my children. Gerry and I worked to stay healthy and stay married, and the deeper we got into this quest, the angrier I got with my father. I came to realize the full extent of what I had missed during my childhood, and what he had missed by not being a parent. Regardless of how or why it happened, my father wasn’t the steady presence in my life I’d needed, and I was determined to make sure this didn’t happen to Sam and Stella. His absence from my life gnawed at me, but I set it aside and focused on my family. I kept moving forward, sure that the way would clear eventually. My dad was always perfectly honest about being bad at staying in touch. He’d apologize when he called, we’d catch up with each other, then another couple of years would go by. My responses to his phone calls would seesaw between anger and disappointment and hope. He was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in May 2013, and I called him as soon as I found out. Even then he told me that “life is just so busy,” and that he was sorry he hadn’t called in so long. I assured him that I loved him and that I wanted him to keep me updated as he went through his chemo and radiation treatments. My Gram kept me updated throughout the summer and early fall as he finished up the chemotherapy. For my birthday in September, Gerry, Stella, Sam, and I went apple picking. I basked in the solid nuclear family I’d craved my whole life. An annual tradition, we pick fruit at Levering Orchards, a family farm just a few miles shy of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Owned by generations of Quakers, the farm operates with wooden ladders and stacks of buckets. The farmers point off towards the orchards, “The Granny Smiths are nearly picked clean, but the Winesaps are still going strong, they’re up beyond the shed to the right. You been here before?” We nod, and head off in search of the trees with the most fruit. An hour later, we sit enjoying the clear view across the mountain range, each with a huge juicy Stayman-Winesap—simplicity in its most satisfying form. Our visits to Levering are moments of feeling the roots of our family and soaking up the beauty of an unspoiled place. Six hundred miles south, my dad was facing complications as a result of his chemotherapy. Even though the cancer was nearly gone, he had lost a lot of weight, and his body was struggling. When I hit the road to visit him for the last time, I survived the ten-hour drive on apples, V-8s, and cigarettes. I drove to Tallahassee on a clear sunny Sunday, what we Quakers call First Day. Like a weekly fresh start, on First Day I try to shift my outlook on life, even if it’s just a tiny bit. The driving conditions were perfect; the way was clear. Gerry and the kids kept the household going, and other family called and texted to offer love and support. The last news I’d gotten was that he’d been intubated and had a feeding tube, but that he was tired, frustrated, and ready for it all to come out. My GPS kept telling me I’d arrive at 8pm, which wasn’t soon enough. I hurtled through my day, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks. As I tossed my apple cores into a growing pile, I cried and worried about getting there too late. Twenty years of my adult life passed through me as I set aside my anger and disappointment in favor of love and hope. When Bruce Springsteen came on the radio, I let him stay. Meanwhile, family was flying from Rhode Island and California, and my dad had been told we were all coming to see him. He agreed to wait, Sue called to tell me. It would be the next day before everyone could get there, so I didn’t need to rush. When I arrived and found the ICU waiting room, I didn’t recognize anyone, but they recognized me. Sue’s family members embraced me, and her sister Carrie led me in to see my dad. He could only communicate with his eyes, and I felt the love, joy, and fear. Hugging desperately, he motioned to pull the side railing down, and we spent hours together that way. I held his hands, hugged him, and rubbed the tufts of hair around the edges of his near-bald head, smoothing them down. He couldn’t speak, so he wrote notes. He motioned for me to bring him the paper and pen, and he wrote to me, “I love you Ivy. All of you.” And I told him I loved him, and that we had said all we needed to say. “Anything else is gravy, dad.” We dozed off for a while. He had gotten a new dose of morphine, and I was exhausted from the drive, but there was a sense of time passing that woke us both up to visit some more. I showed him all of the pictures on my tablet. See Stella? Isn’t she beautiful? Here she is before the 8th grade dance. Here she is at the beach. This is Sam in the candy store. Hasn’t he gotten tall? Here they are with Gerry up in the lighthouse at Tybee Island. Eventually we had to sleep. The family had gone home, and it was just Sue and me in the tiny waiting room. We each took a couch. The next thing I knew, my Auntie Maureen was waking me up. Maureen, Bill, and Kay—my dad’s siblings—had arrived with my Gram around two in the morning. As the day progressed, the waiting room filled up, and my dad’s two families blended together. Days there meant trips to and from his room, the café, the car, and my smoking spot outside. I welcomed the escape into nature. Patterns established themselves. Every time we got in the elevator, Gram would comment on the pretty floor pattern. Every time we arrived in the lobby, the lady at the desk would offer Gram a wheelchair, and she’d decline. “It’s good for me to walk.” Every time I furbled through the parking deck and out to my smoking spot, a small brown lizard would scurry across the sandy path. Every time someone came from seeing my dad, we’d all say, “Whose turn is it?” On Wednesday, we all gathered around him to pray, sing, and share our love. It was time to say goodbye. Afterwards we shuffled around the hallway outside his room in a painful square-dance of hugs and tears. Maureen, Bill, Kay, and Gram left for the airport, and I had a few hours until rush hour made getting out of the city difficult. Even with the way the morphine confused him, he knew he was going to die soon, and we talked about it together. I offered him comfort, reminded him how completely he was loved, but I never really had a chance to say goodbye because he had fallen asleep when I had to leave. I thought he’d wake up again and wonder where I went, and I didn’t want him to think I’d just abandoned him, but mercifully he slept on through. In my hotel that night, I dreamed he came to visit me. Silent, whole, and walking, he wanted to show me he was okay. His peace soothed me, and I slept soundly until I got a call in the morning from my cousin to tell me my father died. Before going home, I found a bamboo farm and spent hours basking in the light of the sun. Somehow, it felt fitting to honor my father with a walk outside, so I walked. I sat. I cried. I vowed to hold on to the love and redemption, to stay close to Sue’s family, to love my own family even better. Letting go of my father meant letting go of the hope we’d grow close. Letting go of the anger without letting go of the love. The rest of the fall was unusually quiet. I spent hours every day alternating between napping and sitting outside, staring into the fire. In order to hold on to my feelings, I wrote dozens of pages in longhand, made lists and timelines, looking at what I knew about my father’s life from various angles. As a writer, I needed to find the words to capture what had happened and create a sensible narrative. After all, who we are is wrapped up in the stories we tell about our lives. I had an incomplete set of memories to work with, so I called and texted my way to more clarity, learning from my Gram and others. As I sorted it all out, the story I wanted to claim as my own started to emerge. My father held the back of my bike’s banana seat when I learned how to balance without training wheels. He caught me when I jumped down from an old boat in a neighbor’s back yard where a nest of yellow jackets stung me from head to toe. He encouraged me to write when I told him about the novel I was working on. He had moments of being a hero and cheerleader. Sure, he’d disappointed me, and yes, he’d left me with just one parent for most of my childhood. Because of those choices, my children have two parents. The chain of events he set in motion resulted in a life that I love, filled with people I love. The quiet fall yielded treasure along with the sadness and lost hope. Normally our oak trees drop acorns down on us throughout the month of October. But in a rare season of silence, the oaks didn’t drop acorns that year. I did some research and found out that acorn crops are the result of conditions experienced years before. Then I embraced the silence and all of its gifts. Ivy Rutledge lives in the North Carolina Piedmont. She has an MA in English and an interest in environmental issues. Her writing has appeared in print in The Sun and Home Education, and online in the Mom Egg Review, Tilt-a-Whirl, The Copperfield Review, and Ruminate. You can read more at www.ivyrutledge.com.
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