Quoting DiCatLV:

I remember twelve

I remember one-inch heels
and garter belts that twisted
itchy stockings around the leg
in shapes mother nature never intended.

I remember books about a first kiss
that never described spin the bottle or post office.

I remember billy whatshisname
who gave me a hicky
(and I had wondered what all the fuss was about
and hid it for days under turtlenecks from my mother).

I remember holding my first baby (you)
and realizing that my body could create this
Life
(not quite sure how--sex education was
NOT that great back then).

I remember twelve.
I remember learning to smoke
because EVERYONE at Lucy's slumber party could.
Except me.
(And I can almost remember eleven
when I swore I would never become a nicotene fiend.)

I remember holding my first baby
and realizing that my body could create this--
Only my body hadn't, my mother's had

The thought of my father doing THAT
with my mother is wrapped in
hazy painful memories of my mother
wearing my father's shirt
and his watch
and crying
and moaning
and timing contractions to beat the band.

I was sure (at twelve) that although I really would
love a child if I had one
I would never let a boy do THAT to me,
so I would probably never have any.
(babies).
but just be a dried up spinster
teaching Sunday School
to all the babies everyone else had.

So I held you, little sister.
You were the first baby I ever had.
And in many ways, the most special one.

So now I'm not twelve.
You are thirty and I am much older.
Here you are
taller than me
and so beautiful.
Just like when you were first in my arms.

First baby.
Brown eyes, blonde curls.
Ten finger and toes and perfect.
(Back when I believed that God is the only one
who could create such perfection.)

Today, they ripped open your chest
[again]
Fifth or sixth time?
Cancer eating your lungs (again)
AND
you never smoked.

You did many other things.
Graduated William & Mary.
Full scholarship.
I was so proud of you.
when you were twenty-four,
(graduated late cause you had to work part of the way through).

Twenty-six. (Two years later)
There you are on the op table.
split open like a chicken about to be deboned.

One lung down {the tumor the size of a fist)
But you NEVER smoked.

Four years later (two, or was it three?
operations more--because
you couldn't breath, right?)
They only took ten percent of the
remaining one. (lung)

This time, Virginny girl. (you). . .
this time I wasn't there to hold your hand
or sing the lullabies like I did when you were a baby.
or shave your legs and wash your hair
cause (as I said)
'Hey, those are some damn FINE
looking interns 'round this h'eah hospital...
and a gal with only one lung could sure
USE a doctor for a hubby.'

You laughed and let me bathe you
more patiently than you did as a baby.

I always made you laugh like no one else could,
(you said).
So much so, that the stitches,
holding your chest and side together,
hurt like bloody hell, (you complained).

If I could take the pain
for this operation and recovery.
I would
I would, little one.
without drugs
or antibiotics.
Split me open.
Breathe for you.
Big brown eyes.
Baby girl.
First baby I held in my arms.
I love you.
And I would take the pain
if God would help you breathe again.

.


c. D K Forbes Compton

I remember twelve

I remember one-inch heels
and garter belts that twisted
itchy stockings around the leg
in shapes mother nature never intended.

I remember books about a first kiss
that never described spin the bottle or post office.

I remember billy whatshisname
who gave me a hicky
(and I had wondered what all the fuss was about
and hid it for days under turtlenecks from my mother).

I remember holding my first baby (you)
and realizing that my body could create this
Life
(not quite sure how--sex education was
NOT that great back then).

I remember twelve.
I remember learning to smoke
because EVERYONE at Lucy's slumber party could.
Except me.
(And I can almost remember eleven
when I swore I would never become a nicotene fiend.)

I remember holding my first baby
and realizing that my body could create this--
Only my body hadn't, my mother's had

The thought of my father doing THAT
with my mother is wrapped in
hazy painful memories of my mother
wearing my father's shirt
and his watch
and crying
and moaning
and timing contractions to beat the band.

I was sure (at twelve) that although I really would
love a child if I had one
I would never let a boy do THAT to me,
so I would probably never have any.
(babies).
but just be a dried up spinster
teaching Sunday School
to all the babies everyone else had.

So I held you, little sister.
You were the first baby I ever had.
And in many ways, the most special one.

So now I'm not twelve.
You are thirty and I am much older.
Here you are
taller than me
and so beautiful.
Just like when you were first in my arms.

First baby.
Brown eyes, blonde curls.
Ten finger and toes and perfect.
(Back when I believed that God is the only one
who could create such perfection.)

Today, they ripped open your chest
[again]
Fifth or sixth time?
Cancer eating your lungs (again)
AND
you never smoked.

You did many other things.
Graduated William & Mary.
Full scholarship.
I was so proud of you.
when you were twenty-four,
(graduated late cause you had to work part of the way through).

Twenty-six. (Two years later)
There you are on the op table.
split open like a chicken about to be deboned.

One lung down {the tumor the size of a fist)
But you NEVER smoked.

Four years later (two, or was it three?
operations more--because
you couldn't breath, right?)
They only took ten percent of the
remaining one. (lung)

This time, Virginny girl. (you). . .
this time I wasn't there to hold your hand
or sing the lullabies like I did when you were a baby.
or shave your legs and wash your hair
cause (as I said)
'Hey, those are some damn FINE
looking interns 'round this h'eah hospital...
and a gal with only one lung could sure
USE a doctor for a hubby.'

You laughed and let me bathe you
more patiently than you did as a baby.

I always made you laugh like no one else could,
(you said).
So much so, that the stitches,
holding your chest and side together,
hurt like bloody hell, (you complained).

If I could take the pain
for this operation and recovery.
I would
I would, little one.
without drugs
or antibiotics.
Split me open.
Breathe for you.
Big brown eyes.
Baby girl.
First baby I held in my arms.
I love you.
And I would take the pain
if God would help you breathe again.

.


c. D K Forbes Compton