When the Sun Shall Shine Through the Rain
I am like a pearl,
making a dive
through a bottle of Prell.
That was my life
for months after she came,
and nothing was ever the same.
Every morning was a struggle
to get out of bed—
sapped of the stores of energy I once had;
to sleep with abandon,
without thought or care
of a little princess with golden hair.
My time is no longer my own,
but precious are the moments that glitter like silver,
for they are more precious than gold.
Her little hand clutches mine,
and my heart catches.
My cup runneth over.
I am revived in spirit,
if not in body,
for my flesh is weak.
The time is now—
now I must turn away
from the sugar that glistens like snow,
from the lethargy of being housebound at times.
I must fight for what once was easy for me.
I must find that old physicality
in this new life.
I must find that vibrancy once again;
I must take care of myself,
as I take care of her.
I stand on solid ground,
looking upwards and all around—
away from myself,
for my priorities have shifted,
like the tectonic plates I stand upon,
and my soul is uplifted.
The magnitude of my responsibility,
hits me like a wall of cement,
for “the hand that rocks the cradle,
is the hand that rules the world.”
This is more like prose, well, it is prose (which is really non-rhyming poetry, right?). It’s sort of based on the theory that there is no reality, only perception, and on this quote I read about memoir writing. Though we remember things that actually happened, we all remember them differently, just like no one reads exactly the same book.
That Fuzzy Gray Area Called Memory
Remember when I was born and you were so happy?
I remember when you were born.
Remember your first day of school and you were so excited?
I remember being excited about leaving.
Remember when you were trying out for baseball and how hot it was?
I remember it being hot all the time.
Remember when you ate that hot dog and threw up all over Grandpa?
I remember throwing up all over Grandpa,
and not being able to eat hot dogs for a whole year.
Remember when you blew a bubble and got gum all in your hair?
I remember Mom crying while she shaved my head that time.
Are you sure it wasn’t a lollipop?
Remember when you graduated from high school and you were kind of sad?
I just remember being happy.
Remember when you went off to college and Mom was sad?
I remember being scared.
Remember when you met Anne and it was not quite love at first sight?
I’ve always loved Anne.
Remember your wedding day, and you were so nervous?
She was the one who was nervous.
Remember when you almost fainted while Marie was being born?
Guys don’t faint.
And the moral of this prose is simple:
This is why perfectly true memoirs are impossible to write.