I love the Lord's prayer. The language is so succinct, so powerful, summing up all the needs of life in the span of a few lines. Yet it's the first line that used to stumble me. The "our father." In truth, it still does. Especially on days like today. "You should never take a child away from a parent, even if it's just a fish."--Mitchell Dawson to his daughter, explaining why he didn't eat sardines, Misdemeanor That line, the one above, sliced me like a can opener, cut me open at the gut. I just finished the book the quote is pulled from, sent to me by the author, a friend I've spent the past year corresponding with but not really knowing, as evidenced by the stab of her pen. A good stab and in a very few pages. A talent for the the lean she has, one I lack. It's a short book, 134 pages. There's a 1000 pages of stuff in there though, hiding between the periods, sleeping under the commas. It got tight for me around page 100. I had to put it down. I tried to tell myself that was about savoring it (partly true) but the real deal was that it hit on some issues that live in my back room. The main clock she cleaned? The--my--inability to accept love because I'm scared I'm going to lose it. Malena (the main character) had the same root thing, the same question. "How can I love somebody when they're going to leave me?" After all, he left me. Though I hate to admit it, so much goes back to that Captain Kangaroo moment. He was there and then he was gone. I was young, so young they said it wouldn't matter. But it did. It does. He is oceans away now, but still here, always lurking at the edges of me--eyes of fire, shoulders of steel, lips full of big words and loving power. Even then, he gave me some of those words, words others thought I was too young to understand. His touch, his eyes, translated. I always understood him. It was other folks that didn't make sense. He worked hard, learned hard, loved hard. Believed little in intellect ("an American convention") and more in perseverance. In sacrifice. I inherited this passion, this dangerous wonder, the one that set him upon the altar. After days as an engineer, he sold African art to the wide-eyed people with curious, pale hands and afroed brown folk looking for a slice of her--Africa--and perhaps a piece of him. She was all of over him--me. Still is. It was the seventies. Our time. One hundred shades of brown. Even so, he was too much for them. I sat on the counter, I'm told, keeping watch over all that was his. I believe that. It must be so, for the loss of him, which to this day has never been clearly explained to me, is still keenly felt. I feel it now as God gifts me with friends of my heart, bosom friends that I prayed for, and I love them a while, then pull away. It is too good. I feel greedy to keep accepting, giving. I Wonder if there will be any left for later if I use it up now. In my heart though, I know that I must use it, take it, give it. Having many children has taught me that only loving can give birth to greater love. This loss, it makes me struggle to accept the gift that is my brick, it makes me nervous about building too tall on all that he is. All that we are. I don't want to make it too high, this love. It's already so far above my head. It might fall. Like he fell, flung far across the night from me. Flung onto another sky. He emailed me today. For the second time. I replied. More poems, the old ones, definitely 2000. It was a painful, poetic year. A wing-sprouting year. Ebo Warrior
A million nights
In my dreams
You rode on the sun
To rescue me
They tell me I am just like you
I almost believe them too
That must be why
I am
so wide
so deep
so long
so smart
so fierce
so strong
I am an Ebo warrior too.
Why did you not take me with you?
Daddy
Today at school
I met your friend
He read my name
Just like you say it
His eyes grew big
As Moon Pies
When he raved about your
Brilliant mind
Family line
Sine and cosine
I smiled and told him
I knew all about your
Firm behind
Engineering design
Running blind
He looked sad then
So I told him it was okay
I have a daddy anyway
I told him all about His
Divine design
Paid the fine
Walks the line
Gave His for mine
Your friend smiled
He knows Him too
Copyright Marilynn Griffith, 2000-2004.
4 comments:
*crying*
i can never understand why god allowed himself to be illustrated to us by this flawed, to easily screwed up thing we call father.
i know it has stood between me and god many times. when it's good it's too good for words, but when it's flawed it cuts so deep.
i was so excited by the end of the post to know you are corresponding. every co-dependent bone in my body would have helped you locate him if it was necessary.
thank you for sharing your pain and poems. *still crying*
Bobbie,
Thank you for your tears. Today, I need them. And thank you for being a helper. Though you call it co-dependent, I'm sure those who receive your help and care call it by a different name--love. :)
Blessings : Mary
While men make mistakes, or express the love oddly, never doubt that the love is there.
Kirk,
I know that. :) No man-bashing intended. Promise. I know that my Dad loved me and loves me now. Now I have to move forward to open my hands, for his love and the love of others. As for laughter, you just never know when there might be some around here. :)
Grace,
Mary
I grow 10 feet every time I read you. You have made this diminutive woman TALL.
Thank you, again, for mirroring my heart.
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