Douglas Barbour wrote:
> Stephen, Ken, Halvard:
>
> Whew, these mothers
>
> & the writing sons...
For years my father was my favorite literary character. He died when I
was 10 so I had a lot of time to process him without catching Mad Dad
Disease. Because my mother died when I was just turned 48 it's taken
longer and, given the whole mother-son oddity in general and of the two
of us in particular, it's much less straightforward. Still, she helped
make a writer out of me though I initially (as below) felt far less
comfortable "playing" with her than I do now. SOMEone has to fuel those
nightmares. Oldie but something-or-other....
THE BIRTH OF THE POET
In the quiet hours of winter afternoons,
while dinner is cooking and my father is expected,
in yellow lamplight my mother reads to me,
Hebrew School retellings of stories from the Bible:
of errant children losing Eden,
children drowned in Noah's flood,
Abraham who would sacrifice his son,
the cruelty of Joseph's brothers
and their deceit of the father
who mourned the son he thought was dead.
And of course I try not to cry
because tears upset the lamplit stillness
and the words.
And when I cry she closes the book, says
but these are only stories,
none of this can happen,
none of it is really true,
it's only words:
and goes into the kitchen to prepare the table
and await my father,
while I sit alone in the living room
and stare at the blue cover of the book,
wondering at the silence
of my disobedient confusion.
KTW/12-94
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