Love Poem for My Parents
It’s not the bindweed that winds between the plants in the garden, twining itself to the fragile leaves, so when you pull it away the poppy breaks too. Maybe the poppy, its tender tenacity, sprouting from wherever it has dropped its nearly invisible seeds. My mother didn’t like music until after my father died when she’d play his records for hours—Chopin, Beethoven, Bach—but not Keith Jarret. She drew the line at jazz. She didn’t like sweets, either, but she’d bake my father intricate Bavarian tortes like he saw in the Trappist catalogue, 12 sticks of butter, 12 layers each as thin as a coin, the icing whipped in a froth of sugar, chocolate, cream. Later, the Alzheimer’s binding her brain, she’d eat Snickers Bars at night, always the small ones. Fun size, said the packaging overflowing her bedside garbage can, but she was no longer laughing.
Beautiful love poem, Pauletta.
Heartbreaking: Fun size, said the packaging overflowing her bedside garbage can, but she was no longer laughing.
I loved all of the little details you weaved in and I really enjoyed reading your piece!
bindweed and poppy breaks vs. binding her brain and no longer laughing
Oh, the long i’s in the first lines — I swooned. This poem works on so many levels. Love the way it moves over time.
I enjoyed this richly-written poem.
What a compelling ending to a beautiful love poem, Pauletta.
They each gave to the other. And I wanted to cry at the end.
Your elegance with words grabs at the heart! Absolutely exquisite.
love the nearly invisible seeds–how all the beings in this poem pull and push and shape one another.
And that last line….
Beautiful and heartbreaking.
I hear your voice reading this. Your work always takes my heart somewhere. Much <3
Her care of your Father was impeccable.
Your care of her was impeccable.
Love you both!