My talents and passions were belittled
The process of finding your six words can take you on a journey that sums up your story, or leads you to a bigger one. These six words were a catalyst for the beautifully haunting and emotionally charged sonnet that follows:
After Tim
by Amy MacAvery
I.
Prologue
With great guilt of survivorship, I grieve.
Our parents tread upon pain unnerved.
Siblings can’t be expected to believe,
that such a fate is theirs and is deserved.
Left without your wide smile and soft brown eyes,
I search for us in what remains of faith.
Our impish team no longer occupies,
as Irish twins, that safe and sacred space.
In the struggle to nullify the numb
one brother turns to studious pursuits.
Another plays piano and the drums,
the youngest boy in deafness absolute.
Without them I retreated into magic,
hidden beneath the radar of the tragic.
II
The Band
My mom and dad gravely paved the way,
where, family and friends turned their heads.
Upheaval did not discourage or dissuade,
them from acceptance as opposed to dread.
Free spirits warmly welcomed in our home,
their precious lively music loudly played.
Full ashtrays, empty beer cans in each room
drums, piano and guitars infused the days.
A steady stream came by to join the band,
all were roused to join in the serenade.
Around me hippies took their lyric stand,
as nights sweet darkness began to fade.
Truth told, I could have used some quiet time,
to dream, to sleep, to write, to rhyme.
III.
Unseen
Words across a page assert their power,
cocooned with pen and paper in my room.
Irked by the jam but not the inky hour,
pen in hand, eager words pierce the gloom.
Below masculine affinities did flourish,
while metaphor in prose or poetry
was unseen and overtly undernourished,
like wild violets, mistaken for weeds.
Not wanted as a singer in the band.
Nor counter cast on an accepted stage.
Not strong enough to know to make a stand,
though, I was loved, my passions lacked for praise.
The ever-present chorus’s performance
Was merry but I craved for my own audience.
IV.
Aftermath
To teach, to write, to learn humanities,
goals thwarted or reshaped by biased minds.
Left me formless without ambitious seeds,
stunted amid this family resigned.
I drifted in a daze through school and life,
no drive to force a confrontation.
Nothing at all seemed worth the strife,
daily lies to divert humiliation.
The mystery of my misery was discussed,
but lost in the family’s unique aura.
My ennui was mistaken for mistrust,
so unseen was the relentless trauma.
Despite all, my tender core persevered
found light within their love to reappear.
V.
Epilogue
Boundaries set between us strong but porous.
The band played on with its familiar weight.
The crowd aged and lost some of its purchase
and I more nimble, ably faced my fate.
Whirlpools spun, gave life to timeless phases,
buried the writer, created strength alee.
Set limits, met success, and corporate praises,
gave birth which softened and enlightened me.
Decades sweep life from parents and from brothers,
music can’t out-sing death or stop the years.
Away from the family fled the scholar,
I write the deaf son’s stories, shed his tears.
Years later, comes the sentient conclusion,
perfect families are but an illusion.
#hersixwordstory, #feministvoice, #womenempowerment, #womensupportingwomen, #femaleempowerment, #girlpower, #feministarts, #feministartist, #safeharborsofthehudson
