My sister Betty, ages three to seventy three
She Always Sleeps with the Radio On
Each night,
as I negotiate
the squeaky stairs
from her attic guest room
down to the bathroom
one more time,
I hear the voices.
I imagine them as her companions,
drowning out night sounds,
freeing her mind from its hard task
of remembering.
Tonight, she sits on a lawn chair
on the grass. I sit on the front steps,
listening
to a friend on the
steps next to me, strumming, strumming,
as my sister and I sing along
in high school harmony.
The little girls across the street
are the first to come,
tiny lawn chairs in arms,
to plop themselves in front of us
for the concert.
As they settle, my sister says,
“Now, back to the music.”
Moments later, their mother follows,
bringing initial happy news
of their upcoming trip
to a lake where last year
a teenage girl had been abducted,
a segue to more disturbing news
of yesterday’s daylight intruder
flushed from a house a block away.
I’d noticed
the police car
circling, puzzled
by his vigilance as we walked
the neighborhood today.
I’d smiled at the man on the bike who didn’t look
a part of this neighborhood, wondering how he’d fare,
but now I feel the threat of him.
“House of the Rising Sun,” stops dog-walkers in their tracks
as the litle ones
sit on the sidewalk
stringing beads I brought,
capturing this night
to hang around their necks:
gray plastic elephants,
pink stars,
orange hearts,
green dolphins strung midleap
on sparkly purple cord.
This night strings us all together:
beads, words, music, the night sounds
of insects and frogs,
happy stories interspersed with fearful ones,
traffic from the busy street one block away.
Hungry mosquitoes,
gathering suddenly,
are what break us apart.
As we climb the stairs,
her door
next
to the only
bathroom
in the house
closes.
For the first time
in the week I’ve been here,
I hear no radio
on my nightlong explorations
down the stairs.
At ten o’clock, 1:30 and 3,
the hall outside her bedroom
stays silent,
this evening’s full company
flooding over into the night.
We have exhausted her mind, filled it, worn her out.
She stlll feels our presence.
Four a.m.
A creaking door, and once again,
silence becomes
a cup for her to fill.
Something is needed
to relieve worry—
to leave no room
for either remembering
or the lack of it.
I hear them then, insistent, down the stairs and in the hall.
Voices all night long.
Wow, poignant and beautiful!
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I hated it that I only had a picture of her after she developed Alzheimers. Went back in my files and finally found a few more. When we were little, she was the family photo-taker, so there are regrettably very few of her.
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So interesting! So intriguing! 🙂
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How you can write all that on one simple prompt is beyond me. I guess it is not the prompt but the memories the word brings. Amazing, beautiful!
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Thanks, frazzled.
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There’s so much depth to this piece. Anything I say is just a hint of what I feel. Brilliant and all those levels of meaning. Superb. Really, no kidding. It’s amazing.
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Thanks, Marilyn. I always appreciate the time you take with a piece.
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That’s very beautiful and tender, Judy. Reminds me of Ted Kooser’s poetry. 🙂
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Thanks, Calen. You and I have been getting together via blogs for a long time!
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We sure have. And I’m SO bad about keeping up with all my subscriptions. But I always enjoy your blogs and your pictures. 🙂
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Thanks. I’m the same. Many times view a lot at one sitting. Gets to the point where you can either blog or read blogs, and the writing needs to come first.
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I didn’t know his work, but looked it up and I love it!
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His poetry doesn’t try to dress everything up so I have a hard time understanding it. Your poetry is that way, too. It’s like listening to you tell a story. But then that’s what you are! A storyteller.
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Well, his method of relaying the story is wonderful. Basically we are reading him for his viewpoint and the way he states it. Doesn’t matter what he’s talking about. Thank you for bringing him to my attention. Yes, plain speaking, but beautiful plain speaking.
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It starts as one thing and then goes to a different, unexpected place. Very tender with a hint of worry. Beautiful.
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Thanks, Jan.
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Powerful and disturbing. Wow.
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