I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.
Today's poem writing prompt is to focus on a physical trait in my family...
Mother and Daughter
Come to think of it,
hair was a thing between us,
keeping us together,
pushing us apart.
"Oh, look at you two,
mother and daughter,
such beautiful hair,
thick, black, and wavy."
I heard this over and over.
In those early years,
she'd preen and primp us both,
I'd cry and protest and wriggle away,
I never cared about my hair, and
her eyes said 'shame on you.'
"It needs to be combed,
it needs to be untangled,
you can't go out looking like that."
I wanted the choice of a simple buzz cut,
like my brothers,
just let me be -
free to climb, run and hide,
work up a sweat.
Exasperated, she styled mine a 'pixie,'
making it conform.
I resented being told to be pretty.
Her eyes said "you don't get a say."
When I look at the family photo,
me, with that soft, perfect curl
in the center of my forehead,
I only see the hour I sat still
beforehand
so that she could create it, and
I see
her manicured hair, and
her sophisticated smile,
projecting
we are a model family.
Her eyes are distant.
By the time I was in high school,
she stayed longer in her bed,
weighed down by mental illness, and
neither I nor my hair was
clipped,
boxed in,
confined.
Mom tried to tame both me and my hair,
and then gave up.
I missed having her wash my hair at the sink,
I missed her playing with my hair,
I missed her eyes noticing me.
So many, many years have gone by,
my hair is now gray,
though thick and playful.
It refuses to grow past my shoulders,
I guess stubborn like me.
Once it hits the nape of my neck,
it decides to be a bush, growing bolder, wide, and wild,
as if still yelling 'let me be!'.
It submits to workweeks with gels and a brush,
but weekends and pandemics
are another thing entirely.
Sometimes my hair covers my eyes.
Susie Morice - from Sarah Donovan's website:
ReplyDeleteMaureen — I, too, loved your wild hair! I want to see it and I can because your words take me there. It “submits to workweeks with gels…” ha…great. I love thinking of your hair wild with pandemic frenzy! The upside of this rotten scourge. Wanting the “buzz cut” so you could get on with more important things… “let me be.” Hair between a mom and daughter … you pulled out those phrases we all recall “you can’t go out looking like that.” Made me chuckle, but a very real battle as we grew up. You touched on several really important themes…the tie to a parent, the identity we strike when we own our own look, the inevitable changes with time, and all the debates that ensue around this one silly thing – hair. Very wonderful. Thanks, Susie
Gayle - from Sarah Donovan's website:
ReplyDeleteYour story is about so much more than hair—I feel as if you introduced me to your mother and let me into your family. And I am glad you let your hair win on the weekends!
Stacey Joy - from Sarah Donovan's website:
ReplyDeleteHi Maureen,
I fell deep into your poem! This part made me tense:
Exasperated, she styled mine a ‘pixie,’
making it conform.
I resented being told to be pretty.
Why can’t we let our girls be the way they want to be? And how do we TELL girls to BE pretty? Isn’t that something.
Then you hit me hard with this:
Mom tried to tame both me and my hair,
and then gave up.
I missed having her wash my hair at the sink,
I missed her playing with my hair,
I missed her eyes noticing me.
Hurts like hell.
Then the hair sometimes covers your eyes. You have left me hanging because I know there’s more and a deeper reason it covers your eyes besides growth or wildness. Wow.
Thank you!
I am impressed, amazed, enchanted by your ability to create a light tone even when dealing with sadness, so light that I, the reader, am a bit surprised when you end with the real meaning. How haunting that last line is; it stays with you as so many striking “one liners” do. ( I am thinking of, “Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.”
ReplyDelete“Sometimes it covers my eyes”
Left unsaid is “And I wish she were wanting to attend to it, to me, again.”