Unwrapped Packages: For “All Wrapped Up”

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Unwrapped Packages

It is the difference between that present handed to you
by a person who says, “It’s only a tie,”
and a package under the tree
squeezed and prodded at—perhaps a corner loosened
or a hole poked in through supposed accidental handling,
pondered like a good detective show.

Who wants these mysteries revealed before their time?
What value in the present whose contents you already know for sure?
The magic of Christmas for some is that faith that the girl,
untouched by human lover, gave birth—and it is that sort of faith
that “saved” the world. If we knew the whole truth of that story
would all it prompted fall into the hole covered all these years by mystery?
The whole world seems to be standing more on what we don’t know
than on what we absolutely know empirically—what we can prove.

And so I look at the picture of my young mother
in her cotton housedress and saddle shoes
holding her baby in front of her in her stroller,
whole contraption, child and carrier,
a foot or two above the ground,
and there is mystery in the reveal.
I do not hear what transpired to cause this pose.
I do not know if my father caught her carrying me
from the porch to sidewalk and said,
“Here, Tootie, turn around,” and snapped the picture,
or whether my older sister planned the pose.
Or whether some movie star was snapped in a similar scene
and my mother and sister, like two conspiring fans,
planned the shot to steal the glamor formerly reserved
for “Photoplay” or “Look” or “Life.”

There would be no reel-to-reel
in any normal person’s life for years.
No movie camera to tell me exactly what my mother was like
or my sister or me before my memory took hold and even then,
my mind’s remembrance
more like reflections in a lake that color and change
depending on the clouds or rain,
distorting the light like moods.
My Aunt Peggy’s house,
always remembered as feeling like
the color chartreuse,
and I will never know why.
That smell of a friend’s house that became associated
with her memory more than any concrete proof of reel-to-reel
or spinning film of movie camera.

I do not know my mother’s voice at thirty.
I did not witness myself since birth
by either sound or sight.
There is a different mystery
to a past caught
in boxes of Kodacolor prints
curling and yellowing in a closet
than one documented like a science experiment
with every event taped and filmed.

Where does the mystery of you reside when you see yourself
so clearly, as others have seen you all along?
What does it leave for you to try to discover?
No tapes.
No film.
No Internet.
No Skype.
No YouTube.
No home movies.
All of our pasts were once wrapped up forever.
Only our fingers poking in the edges.
Only our voices asking,
“What was it like the day when I was born?”
What do you remember about the day when. . . .?

For the All Wrapped Up prompt. This is a rerun of a poem I wrote 5 years ago.

Trump Threatens a U.S. Exit from the World’s Mail System

Illustration by Joe Magee for TIME

BY ABIGAIL ABRAMS 

SEPTEMBER 19, 2019

As an American, Jeanne Glenz prizes her right to vote. But, because she lives near Munich with her German husband, exercising that right isn’t always easy. This year, it could get even harder, depending on the results of an obscure international meeting scheduled to take place in Geneva on Sept. 24-25. If the Trump Administration doesn’t get what it wants at that summit, the United States is set to withdraw from an arcane treaty that governs global mail delivery—leaving commercial shippers and military mail managers fretting, and election officials concerned that millions of overseas Americans will struggle to cast a vote.

You can read the full article HERE.

Earth Bound

 

 

Earth Bound

Autumn is myopic—blinded by fallen leaves—
yet under its blindfold, a suppressed serpent heaves.
Winter seeks to placate beneath comforter of snow,
but what the serpent dreams of no mortal mind can know.

Those qualms of lying dormant under the frozen banks
may be released in springtime, when nature earns our thanks
by mopping up the snow flow and pushing out the flowers,
covering the naked limbs with buds and leaves and bowers.

The world so carefully balanced between its two extremes
that each and every moment is much more than it seems.
The coin of life that’s minted by a larger mind
may in microcosm seem to have us in a bind.

That great hand of nature flipping the coin at will.
One side giving birth while the other’s sure to kill.
This irony of opposites that ties us to this ground
is the majesty of nature––both cruel and profound.

Prompt words today are autumn, myopic, placate, qualm and mop.