I am old and full of days, and I know this because I get gift certificates in the mail, small bordered, blue; staccato messages to me approaching a distinctly marked age, as not like my twin’s age of 68 when her soul pierced the body’s shell and flew onward and upward, and when I had a feeling or wrote something like, “We will see each other once again -against the dark space and within the illumined lands of God, and we will remember our days as three year olds, sitting on tricycles of resplendent fire engine red and sturdy wheels, not yet aware of the rivets and tunnels we would face in our growth as twins and as souls, an intertwining of hate and love.
Fraternal twins. She from my father’s stock, the ones that produced fine men and maybe a sister or two who vaulted into business, and he, our father who was very much on earth, despaired at his life, the alcoholic wife, the kids like cartoon blocked figures with hair all over them, reminiscent of cave days, as witnessed by their teenage grunts from, “Where are you going?” and their toned and chanted response, emitting from their closed lips, “Out.” And indeed they went out.
The older girl, older in months; neighbors say they are all Irish twins, born within so many months of the other, tskk, tskkk. The older sister, yeah, you know the one who won the Margaret O’Brien Look Alike contest in Boston? Oh yeah her, she went out, out indeed.
She conceived a child as she melted into the arms of her teenage lover, the one who laughed and came from a poverty so cruel, and she was sent away to a home for pregnant girls, and all I can say is, “Thank God, she didn’t live in Ireland,” the Ireland of the Magdalene Sisters, in whose convent, young girls of impure type were housed in terror. For it was a time of sheer cement walls and slaves blending in, Irish girl slaves, those who might have had an impure thought or wrested themselves away from a pushy boy, or better yet, did the dirty deed and used the portion of her body referred to as “down there.”
Out also went the twins who by this time had finished throwing pitchforks and ice choppers at one another, but who had graduated to nasty, slime-ridden comments, of “I’m not sitting in the car, next to Esther,” or she, of the famous Hebrew Queen’s name, ran away from the Randall G. Morris Elementary black tarred school yard before Liz could cream her, she ran blocks and darted through the back door of the twelve- room house on Fernwood Road, in West Roxbury, and double locked the old brass locks against an avenging twin.
Not quite like the caves and battles of Beowulf and Grendel, but darn, didn’t Liz thrust her fist through a small paned window and reach down and unlock both locks and burst in and pin the curled up Esther into the coat rack of old winter coats and jackets?
And then that twin and her queen-named counterpart would, miraculously at twenty-one, be kind to one another. The catalyst for such kindness was a brain stem injury on behalf of our sports figure, Liz, of the mighty fist, which rendered her, well let’s just say, “Rendered her.” From those days of miraculous recovery, a mother had died, the father remarried, the sister gone and married; the brother disappearing and last heard was a used car salesman. We proceeded to fill the pages of our lives and we would always help each other out in a crisis. One day of cumulus clouds in Caldwell, Idaho, she passed on, at age 68 of cancer. The first bracket of the hyphenated, “tell-the-twins,” passed, piercing the body’s shell, her soul going on, leaving husks of giant blades of a sad, sad life, but at peace and loving her boys, one who would marry a pure soul and produce golden children, but that is another story.
The story is now 7-8 years later, I, Esther, who was born twelve minutes later, am approaching that demarcation known as “Full of pages of life,” of skin like parchment paper, but also of still ever sturdy hips.
And so this has turned out to be a prose poem, for what does the poet do? They pierce the state of the mundane and rise to astonishment as words from an unseen ocean spill and spill out onto the earth of one’s mind.
What a beautiful remembrance of Liz. I bet she loved your writing.
she didn’t read much of it; private reasons
Reblogged this on allaboutmanners.
thank you so much-esther
thank you so much; I found your blog and subscribed and also the poetry blog; I put a note on your FB site; happy days and blessings, esther
As always, a delight and a reflection.
Esther, isn’t it amazing how we go from name calling to Namaste? So glad that you and Liz found peace and love for each other. I always joke with my sister that I’m so glad to have her because when our parents don’t quite remember the things we do, my sister can confirm I’m not crazy… 😉 This is a really heartwarming piece.
thank you so much!
This is so beautiful, Esther. Your love for your sister is wonderful, and I do love your writing. A lovely remembrance of your sister, and your family.
Thank you so much; it just poured out!
Love this Esther, you have the greatest gift for original language, I marvel at it
oh, you miss her. she’s in a nicer place, let’s hope and smiling at you… 🙂 hugs
Seriously, Esther, your writing is virtually indescribable — and while I mean that as a compliment, it also reflects my fascination with what it does to my brain. It’s as if the right side (images, meanings, relationships) and the left side (words, analyses, contexts) of my brain come together in an emotional, harmonious whole. It’s life seen through the eyes of a poet, who, having lived and narrated it, changes it into something noble. “Copper into gold.” (And I get to change a word and become!)
John
Can I hire you as my professional Reviewer! wow.
I’m at a loss for words…and you know how rare that is! Miss you, Esther. 🙂
yes, I miss you too; it’s busy; life is full, you are tucked in, and that makes me very happy; we’ll connect when times is right; thank you for liking my piece; I’m happy!
thank you dear one! we will rendezvous!
Thank you – went to your post, couldn’t read: Tagalog? not sure; gratitude and love
Esther, that was absolutely lovely. Thank you for putting me in a life I could never have lived, and for your honesty and tenderness in portraying you and Liz in a prose poem. And the timing is nice, as I recently read Angela’s Ashes as well as Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf, so the story resonated even more. Thank you.
Gorgeously painful remembrances. Love how 21 was the miraculous age when everything shifted.
I think it’s appropriate that I nominate for you the WordPress Family award on this post! A touching tribute to your sister and your own life. Thank you for all your support in cyberspace!
http://choppingpotatoes.wordpress.com/2013/10/08/we-are-family/
Total wow, i’ll get to responding later; i’m touched; i’m still in my nightshirt head thatched, eyes working though, both focused on the rapidly expanding New Times Roman letters of gratitude; huge hugs and love, esther
I haven’t replied; or I have; lots on my plate these days; spilling on the carpet, metaphorical, the real one is bad enough; Will get to it; thanks so much; so many wonderful people in this world of greed and grunt!
hello, ms. Esther… just drpped by to reread this, one of the most beautiful you’ve written. i hope you and hubby are faring well. happy 2014! ~San
I feel our connection; more importantly how are you and your beloved country members faring?
stay connected; we have to move; it’s been a rough year, but that’s soul food; love you, e
oh, you must be my grandma and sister, some thousand miles away. 🙂 btw, rehabilitation efforts are proceeding though two typhoons have visited already and swept away some of the tents and shelters, ahuh..
yes, ma’am, 2013 was a trying year as well. but hope we’ll have the energy and the right attitude to face 2014, ahaha. hugs to you 🙂
it’s good to have people around the world to love and care about; best to you – totally