The Other 4-Letter Word - Nov 25 2022

 

The Other 4-Letter Word

Nov 25 2022

An open box

from my parents' cluttered closet.

The cardboard had softened with age,

the bottom bulged downward

as if about to break,

and remnants of old tape

had darkened and brittled.

Everything she'd squirrelled away

and I'd long since forgotten

from my mediocre past;

the holidays and Halloweens

and family vacations,

some average report cards

a few happy birthdays.

As well as fading photographs

like postcards from the past.

But we were not big on cameras

so there are hardly any of these,

mostly me

with distant relatives

I can't even name.

I had no idea

she'd hung on to this stuff.

I had a happy childhood

but wasn't a happy child.

And I'm not at all the sentimental type.

So I confess, threw most of it away.

Which wasn't easy, even for me.

Because of all the years

this plain cardboard box

which could barely hold its shape

had been so diligently saved.

Because of the betrayal I felt.

and how disloyal this would seem.

And because of what she might think

were she still with us   —

a mother's loving curation

of her youngest son's life

coldly dismissed.

But what use

is an old greeting card?

The earnest mother's day creation

with its glued-on decorations

of dried macaroni

in the shape of bow-ties?

A grade school teacher's

trying hard

and starting to come out of his shell?

I don't need a time capsule

of dust-collecting mementos

to remember how it felt

when I discovered this box   —

a testament to the love

of a difficult mother

who struggled as much as me

to even say that word.

The box (along with a large shopping bag) came to me after my brother and sister-in-law cleaned out my mother's condo when she down-sized to assisted living. I'm grateful for their hard work.

Most of this is said without poetic license.

Although I will say that my academic career was actually well above average. I enjoyed school. Structured environments work for me. Especially structured social environments. But I suspect good grades were the most direct way to gain parental approval, not to mention — as the youngest — a good way not be overshadowed by my two older brothers.

Other than that, I'm definitely not sentimental. Why keep all this stuff around when I'll never look at it, no one else cares, and it will just have to be thrown out by whoever is burdened with that task after I die? I say cut to the chase and do it now! And frankly, it feels like a narcissistically self-important act to imagine that this stuff is truly meaningful.

More important, in the context of this poem, we were/are not touchy-feely or emotionally expressive, and the word “love” was never said between us.

A key line is this poem was stolen. I encountered it recently, but don't remember where, so can't give credit. The moment I heard it, I strongly identified, not to mention admired its brilliant compression.

I had a happy childhood / but wasn't a happy child. The power lies in the apparent contradiction. But dig a little, and it's not at all contradictory.

The first part takes ownership: it exculpates my parents, who did their best with an odd and difficult child — unusually sensitive, and not at all neurotypical. And who in human history wouldn't have wanted to grow up in the 2nd half of the 20th century — that rare interregnum of human flourishing amidst millennia of war, disease, starvation, superstition, and oppression — in a prosperous and peaceful country, in a good neighbourhood, in a middle class family with all the advantages? Nothing to complain about!

The second part announces something hard to say. Because, essentially, a lot of the time I really wasn't happy. Which by all rights I should have been. And which also is the way we all want to idealize childhood: innocent; light-hearted; all immersive play and bright-eyed optimism.

She is, btw, still ”with us”. But not really. At 98, dementia has stolen most of her away.