Intro to Poetry, Day 4: Journey

I loved you once.
You loved me once.
Or so we said.
But that didn’t keep us from
Being unfaithful to one another.

Why wasn’t love enough?
Was it that we didn’t love
Hard enough?
Long enough?
Or was it that we didn’t love at all?

Love—
A word we threw around without thought
Or care
Or understanding.
“I love you” we’d say.

“I love you” acted like
A marker in our relationship
We thought of it as a
Talisman,
A protective shield of sorts.

It didn’t work that way for us.
We loved.
Or so we thought.
We tried to fix what was broken.
Or so we thought.

What went wrong?
Did we not try
Hard enough?
Long enough?
Or were we too broken to be fixed?

I loved you once.
You loved me once.
“I love you” we said
As we went our separate ways
But did we really?

Whenever I think about love,
I think of you and wonder
If you think of me
When you think about love–
And the “I” and the “You” that
We once were
Together.

Notes: Today’s theme was “Journey” and the challenge was to include a simile. I think I did okay on this one.

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Intro to Poetry, Day 2: Faces

Do you remember the last time we
Explored each other’s faces in the darkness–
Astounded by each eyelash, and by the soft, smooth lips as we
Reached for one another?

And do you also remember how you said that you
Never meant to hurt me but that there was another
Girl waiting for you in the darkness–
Expecting you to come home?
Laying your hand on my face you brushed
Away my tears for the last time.

Note: Today’s topic was ‘Face” which I found really difficult. I thought the challenge was to write an acrostic poem (which I did) but now that I’ve double checked, I realize that I was completely wrong and the actual challenge was to use alliteration, which isn’t as prevalent in my poem as it might have been had I been trying. The best examples of alliteration that I can see are in the first stanza: the final “s” sound repeated in “faces in the darkness” and also in the third line “each eyelash” and “soft, smooth” but it was all unintentional. I have this sinking feeling that tomorrow’s challenge will be to write an acrostic and I’m not sure if I should write another one or reverse the days and try for alliteration tomorrow? What would you do? I guess we’ll see what the theme is.

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On Facebook, Losing Touch, and Grieving: Remembering Carole

On Tuesday morning, I did as I usually do: went to the bathroom, swallowed some Wellbutrin, and grabbed my phone to check my email and Facebook. I don’t expect to find anything earth shattering when doing either of these things. Mostly, my mailbox is filled with Gap discount codes, the latest issue of Lenny and reminders from my child’s school. Facebook is even less eventful–people sharing articles that rage against Donald Trump and parents worrying about over scheduling their kids while simultaneously complaining about the city’s swimming lesson registration system.  My Facebook page is pretty benign and for the most part, pretty boring, although there are lots of cute baby pictures at the moment. (Thanks M & T!)

Tuesday was different. As I was scrolling down, I saw the notice “C.H. was mentioned in a post.” Someone that I didn’t know, and who I wasn’t friends with (Facebook or otherwise) had written: You will be in our hearts forever Carole. You left us way too early. This made absolutely no sense to me. C.H. was around my age and had kids my age.

That’s actually how I met her: She was one of the first people I met at a mom’s group I went to for first time moms. Her daughter was about three weeks older than my son. I remember Carole as being kind, loving to laugh, and full of life. Could this be the same woman?

It was. Googling her name brought me to the page with her obituary. She was just shy of 43, had a seven year-old daughter and a six year-old son. Her daughter was in Grade 2, her son in Grade 1.  I hadn’t seen Carole in a few years–we had both moved out of the old neighbourhood where we had met, and life got busy. The last time I saw her was just before our kids started Kindergarten. We stayed in touch via Facebook through likes and comments, but I’m not sure I would have used the term “friends” to describe us, more like “good acquaintances.”

When I scrolled through Carole’s Facebook page looking for clues, I found none. She had kept her illness private, away from the public eye of Facebook. I reached out to another mutual friend who told me that Carole had been diagnosed with a tumour in the fall and that the doctors were confident following the removal of it. Unfortunately, the cancer had spread to her liver and she went into palliative care at the beginning of February, but was able to return home for her last weeks.

This death has hit me really hard. I’ve been crying on and off for the past few days. Although we had drifted apart, I was still interested in Carole’s Facebook anecdotes about her son’s allergies and the pictures of the cakes she had made for her children’s birthdays. Facebook filled me in on Carole’s life when she was alive and this time it filled me in on Carole’s death.

I cried because in many ways it took Carole’s death to remind me that I am alive. I am alive with my children. She is not. And that’s a really hard thing to come to terms with, regardless of how close we had been.

Having children the same age is what makes it the hardest. I remember sitting beside Carole at the Mom’s Group, holding our brand new babies and learning how to keep them safe, when and how to feed them healthy foods, and how to deal with teething. I remember one time feeling extremely overwhelmed and discouraged. Carole was so reassuring that we could do this–be good mothers to our children.  And then immediately after, telling me that she was expecting again, wanting her children to be close in age. I was still struggling being a mom to one, and I admired her confidence and strength to do it all over again so soon. But Carole knew what she wanted and she was ready to love another.

Today I sat with my oldest, who brought me into Carole’s life and held him tightly when he asked me if I had been crying. Yes, I said. Because I love you so very much. I thought of Carole’s oldest child, who used to play with my oldest. Carole is no longer there to hold her or her brother tightly. Carole is not with her children that she loved so much.  And I am. And my tears return. And that’s okay. Strindberg wrote: Why do people cry when they’re sad?” I continued . . . “Well,” he said, “because sometimes you have to wash the windows of your eyes to see more clearly!”

I see clearly now how very fortunate I am to be alive.

P.S. Cancer sucks. If you feel so inclined, here’s a link to honour Carole: http://www.cancercare.mb.ca

March 19 Addendum: Today’s Facebook Memory from 5 years ago was a note from Carole saying: Hey thanks for the great visit yesterday! It was nice to catch up. C. spent most of the afternoon asking ” where MooMoos” aka Harris…. Bittersweet. They say only the good die young. In Carole’s case, this is 100% true.

---

Strindberg, A., & Carlson, H.G. (1983) Strindberg: Five Plays. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Soup’s On!

Photo by: Buu Dang, Pixabay (dangquocbuu)

Soup’s On!

I pick up my spoon
And contemplate leaving you
As you slurp your soup.

                                    –J. Amy

Today’s haiku brought to you by WordPress and their Daily Prompt.

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And the first shall be last: A is for Amy.

Note: This is a post I wrote a couple of years ago about my name, but I’ve revisited and reworked it. Today’s Daily Prompt from WordPress, which I like to use when I am short on time and inspiration, is about names. This is one story about my (somewhat confusing) name.

Letters of Latvian (Latin based) alphabet in handwriting (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Many of you who know me in person, or if you have read the About part of this blog, know that my last name is the same as my middle name. My name is Judy Amy Amy. Technically, it’s Judy Amy Amy-Something, but usually I just go by Judy (Amy) Amy to avoid confusion. Here’s a bit of background regarding my name.

Amy is my mother’s maiden name, and there are not many of us left. My cousin is the last of the direct line.  Like every girl in my mom’s family, I too was given the name Amy as a middle name. The difference is that I also have it as part of my last name. My mom’s family hails from the  Island of Jersey a small British ruled island off the coast of France, although the Amys have lived in Canada for several generations.

My father’s last name (the Something) is easily identified as a religious/cultural indicator of sorts in Canada. And my father experienced none of that–when his parents emigrated from the Old Country, they abandoned their religion, their culture, and their language. When my grandparents immigrated to Canada in the 1920s and decided to raise a family, they became (in their words) Canadian. No more, no less. A loss of culture, religion, and language for sure, but this was their choice of how they would adapt and embrace their new country.

It has always been really frustrating for me to have people assume untrue things about me and my family based solely on a name that has absolutely no deeper meaning to me, except for the fact that it belonged to my father. All this does is cause me to groan in irritation as I try to explain once again that I am not a part of this group, and have no knowledge of the language, traditions, or culture.  In this way, I’m happy for the Amy (even if it’s confusing) because it helps denote that I am not merely my father’s daughter, but also my mother’s. I am a sum of the parts. (Which is also why I would like to legally change my children’s last names to include my name, as well as my partner’s, but that would mean cursing my daughter with the First Name Amy Amy-Something, since like all Amy girls, she also has Amy as her middle name. Am I willing to do that? I’m not quite sure.)

If it weren’t for the fact that my father died, and that I feel keeping his name is respectful, I’d probably take a big black marker and cross the Something off my name. Why? I’ve touched on this above with the assumptions, but also because when people see a girl’s name in front of a hyphen, they automatically register it as my first name, with Something being my last name. I guess hyphenated names still aren’t as common as I think they should be. I often hear “Amy Something” called out at Doctor’s offices, as though my first name, Judy, has disappeared. Sometimes it’s the Judy that remains and the Amy that disappears, so that I am Judy Something on letters. Rarely am I Judy Amy-Something. Which is why I introduce myself as just Judy Amy, and leave the Something for the legal stuff. It avoids a lot of the confusion.

So here I am. A is for Amy. I am proud to be Judy Amy Amy. (and legally hyphen Something) I own it. It’s mine. And, for the most part, it’s really not that big a deal. Except when I’m at the doctor’s office, or god forbid, crossing borders:
“Your middle name is the same as your last name?”
“Yes, yes it is.”

Have you ever encountered difficulties or misconceptions about your name? Names are a funny thing–they are one of the first identifiers of who we are, but how representative are they?

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Liar, Liar

You caught me in a lie.
A half-truth, really.
An error of omission.

I blushed deeply.
Humbled and embarrassed,
I made my confession.

What you didn’t realize
Was that in doing so,
I told another lie.
A half-truth, really.

Why?
To stay in practice perhaps.
Because it’s a game.
To liven things up.
Habit.

What can I say?
Once a liar,
Always a liar.

You don’t know me.

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9 Reasons Why I Still Send Christmas Cards (I couldn’t think of a 10th)

I read a lot of articles about different things. Lately it seems as though everyone has been posting articles about how to have a greener, less commercial Christmas. And I agree with most of the sentiments. We’ve never been the type to go overboard buying presents for our children and generally try our best to have a low-key Christmas. However, one thing we do splurge on is Christmas cards. Real ones. In the mail type. The ones the green grinches want you to stop sending. (So much waste. Use e-cards instead.)

This is one point on which I will not budge. My partner and I send out a lot of cards–this year’s list is hovering around the 150 mark. Each year I think up a theme and then we get a photographer to help us create my vision. And then Paul works hard to mold and perfect the finished card through graphic design and photo shop. Then comes the really hard part: address, stuff, lick, stamp, mail, repeat. It takes both time and effort. So why wouldn’t I just send our finished photo out in an email blast to friends and family alike? Here’s a few reasons why:

1. Tradition: I love taping my Christmas cards onto the wall as part of my Christmas decorating. As a kid, I remember coming home each day from school to see how many new cards were on the wall and asking my mom to tell me who the people were who sent us this card. For instance, who were Gord & Lillian? People from my mom’s past that I had never met. A mystery surrounded them. We never saw them yet here they were on our wall once a year, declaring their existence. I like having these discussions with my oldest son now. Would I bring him over to the computer to show him a picture and then explain how they were people I knew long ago? I somehow doubt it. How can I tape e-cards to my wall? I don’t expect that everyone will tape our card to their wall or stick it on their fridge but at least they have the chance to do so, if they so desire.
2. Who doesn’t love mail that isn’t a bill?
3. Canada Post is struggling and I want to do my part to keep our mail carriers active and employed. I’m serious. By not sending physical cards I may be saving trees, but by not sending e-cards I am saving jobs. Or at least I’m trying to.
4. Tradition: I love tradition.
5. Keeping a relationship alive, if only once a year. Having kids has made us simultaneously more social and more anti-social. We’ve lost touch with some of our friends who are in a different stage of life than we are, but it’s nice to reconnect at Christmas, even if it’s just to say “Hello! I remember you! I haven’t forgotten.”
6. Memories: When I look at my list, I think of the people who are on it and re-visit why they are important to me. I take a quiet moment to remember a friend who is no longer with us as I delete his name from the list. I take another moment to celebrate the new names on the list and look forward to making memories with these people who have recently joined our circle.
7. Opening and closing the mailbox and watching all the cards slide down the chute on their way to far off exotic destinations like Vienna, Australia, and of course, North Kildonan. There’s no more satisfying sound than the clunk of the mailbox closing on the last of the cards.
8. I love the creativity that goes into making our cards. I’m proud of them. I want to share them. Is that wrong?
9. Fun. Pure and simple. I enjoy it.

I’m disappointed that I couldn’t come up with 10 reasons to send Christmas cards. That was my goal: to write a list post, and I’m afraid I still need more practice. Do you have a 10th reason to send Christmas cards in the mail? I’d like to add a picture of this year’s Christmas card but then you’d be disappointed when yours arrived in the mail, so here’s last year’s instead.

Photo Credit: Shauna Townley Photography

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Untitled: An Imperfect Haiku

No longer creative,
I am “happy” but empty.
Thanks, Wellbutrin.™

–J. Amy Amy 2014

Photo (Broken Life) by Wendy on Flickr (smkybear)

 

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Back to School Haiku(s): Mother and Son

The crossing arm can be seen in use. Note the presence of the rotated yellow bar on the front bumper. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Waiting for the bus
A new year is beginning
Time to start again

Waiting for the bus
A new year is beginning
I am in first grade.

Waiting for the bus
A new year is beginning
My boy looks so big.

Waiting for the bus
A new year is beginning
What will this year bring?

Note: Here’s another post inspired by the Daily Prompt. I’m not sure whether this sequence of repetitive haikus works as a piece together or whether each one needs to stand alone. Any thoughts?

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Bad Date #12 or A Dream Deferred (with apologies to Langston Hughes)

Notes: In my last post I talked about this Daily Prompt thing I had discovered, and I decided to try it again. Today’s prompt reads: We’ve all had exchanges where we came up with the perfect reply — ten minutes too late. Write down one of those, but this time, make sure to sign off with your grand slam (unused) zinger. Again, I can’t quite seem to follow the rules, because I did in fact use the sign off words at the end of this story, but I still think overall it relates to the prompt. This is a story I wrote quite a number of years ago, and I think that aside from a few dated references, it still holds up. G. and I never had a real relationship, per se, but we did end up having better sex than our first encounter. And that’s probably enough, if not too much of an introduction. Enjoy.

“G—? G—C—? It’s me, J—-. J—-A—-”

I can’t believe it. Here I am, in a dark, smoke-filled bar gazing up at the man who has held a piece of my heart for almost six years now. I’m at the S—-, a bar known for promoting local indie bands, with a group of my friends from university, who have decided that tonight is the night to experience Ecstasy. Not me. No thanks. I’m not Anti-Drug girl or anything, but E isn’t really my scene. At any rate, they’re all having fun–the straight boys kissing the gay boys, the gay boys trying to kiss me, and the one or two girls who are with us trying to kiss just about anyone. I’m tired of it and ready to go home. I’ve decided I’ll have one more beer and then call a cab.

I walk up to the bar and that’s when I see him. G—. G— C—. I fell in love with him my final year of high school, made out with him at the prom, and never saw him again. Until now. Five years later. He’s still as handsome as he always was, those cool eyes taking in everyone and everything. I’ve got to talk to him, just to put my obsession with him at rest.

“G—? G—C—? It’s me, J—. J—A—.”

“Yeah, I know.” Always cool, always in control, always in charge. Just as I remember him. but I’m five years older now, with more confidence in my sexuality and beauty then I had when I was seventeen.

“Care to buy me a drink?” I toss off the words as casually as I can manage, as though I don’t really care one way or the other what his response will be.

“Sure. What are you drinking?”

“Fifty.”

“That’s quite the beer.”

“I’m quite the girl.” And so the flirtation begins. I am at the top of my game, and unlike the time I was seventeen, I know I’m going to win. After several more bottles and a little more PDA then I’m generally accustomed to, we decide to go back to his place. I say goodbye to my friends and jump into a cab with G— and his housemates.

Nude couple in bed. The woman wearing the elegant hairstyle of the 70s of the 1st century is giving her partner a passionate kiss. Roman fresco from the Casa del ristorante (IX.5.14, room f, southern wall) in Pompeii. Ca. 62-79 AD. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We arrive at his house and the game continues. Stumbling up the stairs, clothes being torn off, kisses being shared until we reach his bedroom. Finally, I think. The moment I have been waiting for has arrived. My teenage fantasies fulfilled. Kissing and foreplay continue until suddenly, without warning, G— gets up and leaves the room. I wait patiently at first, but start to get worried. I thought he had just gone to the bathroom, but it’s been a super long time. Did I say something wrong? Touch him the wrong way? Or could it be he has just now realized that I’m J—, J— A— from high school and for that reason alone, undesirable?

What do I do? I’m in a bit of a funny predicament. I am lying naked on a mattress whilemy date has gone AWOL. I’d better go find him. I tiptoe to the bathroom. The door is almost all the way shut, but slightly ajar. “G—?” I query quietly, gently knocking at the door. No answer. I decide to push open the door and lo and behold, there he is, my high school fantasy, huddled, well, crumpled kind of, in between the sink and the toilet. “Are you alright?” A rather indistinguishable noise comes from the lump on the floor.

“Would you like me to get you a blanket?” I offer.

“That’d be nice.” he croaks. I come back with a blanket and return to the bedroom to fall asleep. Some night, I think. To think I wasted five years wondering, fantasizing over some guy who can’t hold his liquor. Oh well, at least now I know and can get on with my life.

Nude couple in bed. Roman fresco from the Casa del ristorante (IX.5.14, room f, western wall) in Pompeii. Ca. 62-79 AD. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At just after six o’clock, the bedroom door opens and in walks G—. He smiles, shrugs, and climbs into bed beside me. Freshly minted mouthwash wafts over me as he proceeds to carry on from where we left off hours earlier. Hey hold on a minute, buddy, I think. I was raring to go at 1:30 last night and you expect me to be just as hot to trot at 6:00 am? I don’t think so. Then again . . . I have waited five long years for this moment . . . and that is the deciding factor.

After some brief post-coital cuddling, I get up to go to the bathroom. It’s early on a Saturday morning and everyone was up late last night so I decide that there’s really no point in getting dressed, only to get undressed a minute later. After freshening up, I walk back down the hall to G—‘s room. Halfway down the hall, a door opens and standing there is a fully clothed guy in his early 20s. I am definitely at a disadvantage. So, what’s a naked girl to do?

I take a deep breath, hold out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m J—-, G—‘s friend” and calmly walk back to the bedroom.

(First draft: 2002)

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 *An earlier version of this story was first posted in May 2013 under the title, A Dream Deferred*