Magpie 32

my grandmother is out there.  somewhere.  close by but terribly far away.  always counting the seconds til her demise.  my father did that as well.  ‘hopefully i’ll be dead soon’, they both would say.

hypochondria is a motherfucker.

i grew up with it affecting my life by listening to his woes.  seven years old and hearing about his aches and pains.  the father who cried wolf.  my heart would be heavy after walking the floors of the little crooked house.

someday i knew he would die.  he reminded me of his unhappiness.  regularly.

she wasn’t much different.  this woman – a nurse – who gave him life, was resigned to her own demise.

he went first.

she is a shadow and a memory of him and i can’t open my eyes.  i’m scared as hell as the last time i saw her i fell apart on the walk home.  i can’t look at her without seeing him.  this is what death does to people.  constant reminder.

i was the first grandchild and child of the oldest child.  i can see him so distinctly in my mind, his stained glass in the window, his booming voice, his imposing figure.  the last time we were in her house we took a walk.  i blanked out my ears as the talk started, opening up again after the woe-is-me ended.

when someone is a hypochondriac you want them to see you desperately.  when he laid there in the morphine pool, i caressed his thick black hair and kissed his cool sweaty forehead that i can still smell to this day.  the smell of my father’s skin.  i lost him the next day.

his wish was fulfilled.
but what about the rest of us/

  One thought on “Magpie 32

  1. September 16, 2010 at 7:35 am

    What about the rest of us indeed. Love your wordplay here and the tragedy rings true. Love and Light, Sender


  2. September 16, 2010 at 8:37 am

    OMG!!! I am the first child of a first child! My maternal grandmother was a hypochondriac! You are so right … MF says it all!


  3. September 16, 2010 at 8:55 am

    wow… to be alive yet too dead to notice the living and the life that surrounds us. the father who cried wolf and the wolf who answered before death ever touched him… Nice work!


  4. September 16, 2010 at 9:11 am

    It is so hard to let go..

    I could feel your loss…

    timeless flies search for fries


  5. September 16, 2010 at 9:40 am

    A very personal and full of feelings Magpie.

    I can feel the pain, the anger and disappointment.




  6. Leo
    September 16, 2010 at 10:25 am

    i do think listening about someone going on about how they are ill or think they are ill, perhaps it affects us in life too..

    sad one, but narrated well.

    My Mag


  7. September 16, 2010 at 4:21 pm

    Strong piece – I'm hoping it's fiction, but…


  8. September 16, 2010 at 6:28 pm

    this is quite sad
    hypochondria is a life of constant mourning



  9. September 16, 2010 at 7:32 pm

    fortunately, time should heal, if there is enough of it…sometimes… time just never enough…EG, i love your deep writing . I hope it helped heal just a bit to get it out on here.


  10. September 16, 2010 at 10:13 pm

    The predictable fate. My father in law was such an hypocondriac yet was dismayed when death arrived. I wonder if he only pretended this “I will die soon business” to fend off bad luck.


  11. September 17, 2010 at 4:49 am

    this was so touching.. loved it


  12. Tess Kincaid
    September 17, 2010 at 5:36 am

    I'm a first of a first, raised by a hypochondriac. It wasn't a pretty picture. Powerful piece.


  13. September 17, 2010 at 12:40 pm

    This is a wonderful piece and I can totally relate to it within my own family. It is their selfishness they just don't see. Yikes it really does suck.


  14. September 17, 2010 at 7:29 pm

    oh nice piece…its got some grit and a whole lot of emotion and written well…nice magpie.


  15. September 17, 2010 at 9:49 pm

    I can feel your pain. It seems it really came to a head for you when he was finally gone. Maybe because you never got the answers you were looking for or an apology or shown love from him in the way you wanted. And now that he is gone, you feel you will never get this.
    What i have learned, though, is that people have their own shit and their own pain and it has nothing to do with you. He just did what he knows. I am sure it is hard when you, the child, is burden with needing to give nurturing to those that should be giving it to you. But as we grow older I think we learn that our parents are just people with their own set of fucked up problems and their behaviours/choices were no reflection of you:)

    I believe writing through your feelings will help heal too. I know it does for me.


  16. September 17, 2010 at 10:02 pm

    I feel 4 u. That's a sad tale.


  17. September 18, 2010 at 4:34 pm

    You write it as though they were somnabulists around you. Even while they were living, in a way they were already gone.

    I like how you see. You keep your history but you don't stay there. You keep walking.



  18. September 18, 2010 at 8:12 pm

    I know of which you speak…the Dad who cried wolf..gone now…what was he thinking??? We were left hurting not him. A permanent fix for a temporary problem. Nice work here.


  19. September 19, 2010 at 12:43 am

    My stepfather's mother, who dined with us once a week, was like that. Her beginning to nearly all statements was, When Iah dah…. She was a Southern belle and when she said I die it sounded like Iah dah, which made my sis and me hysterical so we would be stifling our laughter into the palms of our hands until my mother would gesture for us to leave the room, after which we'd race to one of our bedrooms, toss ourselves onto the bed, and laugh our heads off about the old pain in the ass. I realize now that her accent was a blessing in that the event was funny to us with no lasting side effects as the dad in your piece (yours? fiction?) left behind.


  20. September 20, 2010 at 9:57 am

    certainly intriguing…


  21. September 20, 2010 at 11:31 am

    beautiful sentiments,
    very well done!


Your comments on my blog are appreciated. (Please no solicitors as those comments will be deleted).

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: