Page: Profile: Poetry
||Total Views: 10,966,154
VxPoem ID: 30555
Posted: October 7th. 2007 3:16:48 PM
Age Group: Adult
It is here, he sits awaiting his fate, amidst the unseasonable warmth, October's chill seemingly hidden by the burning of the sun. His world of worries held at bay. Finally resting for a moment solely upon his shoulders, and not within the two heavily weighted steamer trunks that sit listless beneath him. Every minute of his life captured in time. Every memory, every experience, every emotion bound and filed neatly within those trunks, far from view behind the padlocks his heart has erected. It is here he sits, staring up at the walls of his humble three story house with its narrow winding stairwells and quaint decor.
But too he sits, already decided. Fate will not come this day, neither by the powers that be nor his own hand. No, today will be a day of rest as he retires to his basement getaway within the icy darkness of self confinement. His aged and fragile body too wearied from the fight. The stairwell standing before him like Mount Everest will have to wait until tomorrow though at some point he will try and overcome the illusion of this 90+ year old body that in reality is not but 41. He will try, but not before the biscuit set upon the end table calls to him, beckoning him to release the day's pain.
A thousand miles away pangs of home begin to flourish. She envisions the small but dually overpopulated town in which they were raised. The town which she could not wait to escape all those years ago. It would still be eerily quiet so early in the day, save for the humming of the factories and chemical plants that shadow its existence. House on top of house in streamlined rows buzzing with life. She remembers how it was when they were younger. The love hate relationship they shared. How they would fight like cats and dogs, tormenting each other just for the sake of it. It was he who went out and bought her the first album she ever fell in love with, "Candy-O" by the Cars, mostly because he didn't want her touching his anymore, but for her it was the greatest gift she'd ever gotten to that point and it was her big brother who had given it to her. When she was twelve she was inflicted with illness that lasted for months, the baseball size lump in her throat growing beyond reason, sucking the life from her body and it was he, four years her senior, who would become her caregiver while their mother worked. She rememberrd the bell her mother had given her to replace the voice that fell silent during those months and how he would come barreling through the door, his eyes dark, nostrils flaring. "I AM TALKING TO SOMEONE! IF YOU RING THAT BELL IN THE PHONE ONE MORE TIME, SO HELP ME GOD!"
She remembered how her girlfriends would flock in droves to her house, but only on days they knew he would be home, strutting himself around in nothing but a towel after the twenty five showers he would take in a day. She would just shake her head. "MAAAAAAA, tell your conceited son to put some clothes on!" Or how as a daily routine, he would sneak into her room after she left for school to nose around, steal her Queensryche tape, and place the ashtray she had so carefully hidden, right smack in the middle of her dresser for all to see. Though this quickly ended when he was he was smart enough to realize he could extort cigarettes from her.
She too remembered the reputation that preceded him and how for the first two years of her teenage life every cute boy that made her acquaintance would hurry away mumbling "ohhhh your Scott's sister, well it was nice meeting you, bye now!" Grrrrrrr! His typical phone answering etiquette was this, "YEAH, no she's no she's not home!" CLICK. The thing was that she would be standing right next to him at the time. "MAAAAAAAAAA!" When she finally met her guitar toting , heavy metal high school sweetheart, the poor boy was all about banned from the house all because of moment after school, innocently watching TV on separate sofa's mind you, this boy mistakenly sent the sofa pillow atop his lap. Though she wasn't exactly sure what had happened as she regained consciousness, she remembered something about how her darling brother schooled their mother, in a quite matter of fact type tone, on the one and only reason a teenage boy would ever be covering his lap with a pillow.
Yet, with the good memories, does come the bad. She relates in her mind the darkness he had seen throughout his life. The neglect from his father and grandparents, the mother who died on his lap only to be revived long enough for him to have to pull the plug, the illness that seized his body and torments his psyche. For all the times he asked "Why Me", he never did get an answer that was worth listening to.
It's then she can see him in the distance of her minds eye, feverishly dragging those two steamer trunks behind him like hundred pound stone slabs. It matters not where he's going, whether it be the corner store, the park, a friends house, she knew they would be there with him always. For within those trunks lie all that he cherished and all that he had taken for granted, spanning a lifetime of hurt and betrayal, anger and hate, lost love, neglect, and self abuse. Those past years of drug abuse not so oft in the past any longer. Yet she cannot fault him for it, not this time. Perhaps before, she so feared his addictions, always awaiting that wretched phone call informing her that the Reaper had come. But now she finds herself unable to condemn his chosen form of pain management. Managing his life to cope throughout an all out battle he will eventually lose.
She thinks of nothing more than wanting to help him, but she knows that this is out of the question. He would never allows such a thing, he needs help from no one. He has often stated in a quite confident tone, that he would be the only one to save himself as usual, and when the time does finally come he would be the one to end his pain. It is dejavu, for she knows again she will have to await the ringing of the phone. So she looks up at the sky and prays this is not that day. Prays to Divine that a lifeline be sent to nourish and heal his heart if not his body. She prays for Divine to protect him in his hours of pain and darkness.To awaken his soul to the beauty of life, the blue of sky and hope of dreams he has yet to fulfill. It's then she realizes her prayers had already been answered. For all the time she spent babbling throughout these words, she remembers what she wrote in the very beginning and knows without a doubt that he has already decided, "fate will not come this day, neither by the powers that be nor his own hand. No, today will be a day of rest."
Author's Notes: My brother is in advanced stages of MS. He is very scared, angry, depressed and refuses help from everyone. He says to understand even just a tiny portion of the pain that accompanies Multiple Sclerosis you would have to strap 40lb weights to each leg leaving them there for at least 24-36 hours without removing them while you attend to all your daily functions whether it be cleaning, shopping, sleeping, working, etc. Some of the simplest tasks become almost impossible to achieve. Eventually, you just can't feel them anymore and you fall over. It's like dragging along every bit of baggage you've ever accrued everywhere you go.
He feels like this every minute of every day and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. Even that is just a small part. There are days he wakes up literally blind for days and worst of all in his mind he knows that one day it will take his life. He has such a hard time coping, I would give anything to help him see the good in life but he won't listen.
I get upset knowing he's stuck in 3 story house where he is unable to get up and down the stairs, so basically he stuck in the basement, which is kind of ground level if that makes sense.
On top of everything CNN reported a research finding a few years back that men who were exposed to Infectious Mononucleosis when they were teens had a dramatically higher chance of developing MS in adulthood. Needless to say this study has not helped our relationship since he was my primary caregiver during my most infectious days when I was sick.
I'm sorry this piece was so long, but I'm really missing him today and the way things used to be. I just needed an outlet.
Author's Location: Coral Springs, Florida
More Poems: SilverAngelFire has posted 204 additional poems- View them?
Author's Profile: To learn more about SilverAngelFire - Click HERE
Contact Me Via Email...
Email Invites Note: Yes! I have opted to receive invites to Pagan events, groups, and commercial sales
Disclaimer: The Witches' Voice inc does not verify the accuracy of the details stated in this listing, nor do we vouch for the value of the goods or services presented here... As with all contacts and financial dealings in cyberspace, we encourage you to use caution and wisdom in your dealings with strangers.
Political Statements: Any and all personal political opinions expressed in the public listing sections (including, but not restricted to, personals, events, groups, shops, Wren's Nest, etc.) are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect the opinion of The Witches' Voice, Inc. TWV is a non-profit, non-partisan educational organization.
State/Country flags created by 3dflags.com and are used with permission
Web Site Content (including: text - graphics - html - look & feel)
Copyright 1997-2014 The Witches' Voice Inc. All rights reserved
Note: Authors & Artists retain the copyright for their work(s) on this website.
Unauthorized reproduction without prior permission is a violation of copyright laws.
Website structure, evolution and php coding by Fritz Jung on a Macintosh G5.
Any and all personal political opinions expressed in the public listing sections (including, but not restricted to, personals, events, groups, shops, Wren’s Nest, etc.) are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect the opinion of The Witches’ Voice, Inc. TWV is a nonprofit, nonpartisan educational organization.
Sponsorship: Visit the Witches' Voice Sponsor Page for info on how you
can help support this Community Resource. Donations ARE Tax Deductible.
The Witches' Voice carries a 501(c)(3) certificate and a Federal Tax ID.
Mail Us: The Witches' Voice Inc., P.O. Box 341018, Tampa, Florida 33694-1018 U.S.A.