#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Roses in the yard
A short walk, very cool morning, rained all night, everything wet. A day of cleaning, moving furniture, organizing, clearing clutter. Girls here, all of us working, not a restful day for Frank, I’m afraid. He, always giving more and more and more to his family. Helping everyone be comfortable and settled. A nice dinner and sharing of gratitude to him from me and the girls.
Thinking of my own father tonight. Sharing this poem I wrote while he was still alive in memory care; it was first published after he died in Cape Cod Poetry Journal , and then in my Tree of the Apple chapbook. It’s about the years he lived off campus with Mrs. Beane, who let rooms to Harvard students who couldn’t afford to live on campus. He was there on the G.I. Bill. The poem is about how, whenever he was agitated about something, as his dementia worsened, if we mentioned Mrs. Beane’s name to him and talked to him about the memories he shared with us about living with her in Cambridge, he would immediately calm right down. His eyes would light up and he would smile, thinking so fondly of Mrs. Beane, who seemed to be a kind of second mother to him during those years.
Mrs. Beane’s Snow
A story is an anchor. He drifts.
A story is a map. His direction
is lost. Mrs. Beane is a story. A name
is a compass. A street is a library. Her home
is a borrowed book. Story runs in circles.
Her driveway is a place to park. A river runs
past him. Brattle runs from Harvard Yard to Mrs. Beane.
Any ordeal is a landmark. A crisis has an ending
and before that a test. Once upon a time A pond
freezes in winter. Within walking distance
grows a boy with skates. This story has a sister.
A hero may be rescued more than once.
A story is a goal held by a net. Hockey is game
you win on ice. A threshold is college after a war.
A dormitory houses students with treasure.
A Brahmin can be a widow who lets rooms.
Young men of a certain character may call it home.
A battlefield is an ice rink. A collarbone broken
is a setback. A nurse can be a sister who is called.
Comfort is a cast but it’s not an elixir.
In snowy storms a driveway is a hurdle.
A stunning blow is one useful arm and a shovel.
A calling can be a lady in distress.
A shovel of snow must be lifted.
A shovel of snow must be heaved.
A shovel of snow must be lifted.
A shovel of snow must be moved.
One arm can lift one foot can heave.
There are so many shovels of strong.
A driveway is a place you can leave and return.
A river runs from mine to hers.
Home is a place to find what you give.
A listener longs for story.
An elixir is how it tells you.
Telling loves Mrs. Beane’s snow.
~ ©Kelly DuMar (first published in Cape Cod Poetry Journal; published in Tree of the Apple)
Photo by Franci, me and dad