By: Kaitlynn Yeager
Grandmom buried 3 of her 5 children,
but little does she know there’s a 4th who picked up the shovel.
He’s out there digging,
high on methamphetamines,
his cheeks hollowed out.
His hands are shaking
from digging all of these years,
but he hasn’t stopped yet to take a break.
Sweat drips off his chin
and that vein in his forehead is pulsating
in rhythm with his heavy heart.
The hole gets deeper, but so do the bags
under his blue eyes,
pale ones that’ll scare you just right.
His teeth have rotten from decades of smoking cigarettes,
but you’d never know behind the dentures,
the ones that hide the gaps and spaces between,
the gaps and spaces between me and him.
He’s always been an adult small in t-shirts
despite the fact that he eats and eats,
but gains no weight,
goes out for “milk” at 2am, and
never comes back with any in hand.
He’s got a dagger tongue and
way more bite than bark.
How can I take the shovel from him when
he keeps beating me over the fucking head with it?
How can you be there for someone
that you can’t even look in the face?
How do you tell Grandmom it’s not her fault,
that she didn’t fail as a mother,
she didn’t do anything wrong,
she loved them as much as she could,
she protected them as long as God could bear,
but still her love was not enough to keep them grounded to our Earth,
where all our memories live.
Her love was not enough to prevent the cancer
from taking its toll,
but I know her love will metastasize beyond their lives,
beyond their graves,
beyond the patches of grass that die around their headstones,
beyond the empty space in her chest,
the one that burns the most when she’s alone.
How do I tell Grandmom that I know how she feels?
That I know my love was not enough to keep my father away,
To keep him away from those 2 in the morning milk runs,
To pull him back by the collar when the drugs were calling,
To tell him to put the phone down,
To tell him not to answer.
To tell him, I’m here. I’m right here.
Can’t you see me, I’m right here.
How do I tell Grandmom that I know my love was not enough,
that it was not as strong as the high,
the high that glosses over his vision,
makes those blue eyes far away.
How do I tell Grandmom that if my love was not enough for him,
I’m afraid more than anything that my love won’t be enough for me?