kaleidoscope
when I was young
I used to sit in the farthest
corner of my back yard and eat wild parsley
pretending it was a secret daily vitamin
and wonder, "who am I?"
when I became middle-aged
I found who I was through paychecks
monthly bills, the rise and fall of marriage
and acceptance of a disability
flashed in the mirrors of daily living.
when I am old
I will turn the mirrors sideways.
the flesh of glass is bright,
it will be better to look at the sun
heirlooms
how many homes has it been now?
four or five at least, over the past sixteen years
and the dingy, hard-covered suitcase stays with me
is never unpacked.
no need to review its contents,
memory serves its purpose; a few trinkets-
my father's first communion certificate,
one or two report cards, a high school pin,
another from the catholic rotary club,
a family photo album; "Kennedy" burned into its
wooden cover, leather strappings crisscrossing
at the spine, a gift from my grandfather.
then the letter. shakily scribed in blue ink
tucked safely into a bold pink envelop
by a ten year old child
assertively, in her usual ways
noting that her father had started drinking again
and asking the ultimate, why?
two sets of divorce papers; one between he
and my mother, fairly straight forward,
irreconcilable differences. the other
more damaging, alleged abuse towards
his second wife. not the kind of memento
a daughter begs to read, but something
of her father's nonetheless. there is little else.
except perhaps, reminiscent of a position he took
much pride in, umpire to many community teams
season after season-
three worn baseballs, faded red stitching
for three grandsons he never knew.
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Donna Hill lives in British Columbia, Canada with her three sons. She has
been seriously writing poetry for a few years now, drawing much of her
writing style for realism from life around her, her family, and her work as
a child educator. She currently is poetry editor of Erosha, a literary
journal of the erotic. Donna's poems have appeared in print issues of One Dog Press, Sex in Public, Poems
Niederngrasse and Peshekee River and have also been published online by
numerous literary webzines. Her poem, "my hands write when I need them to," took first prize in Comrades first annual poetry contest, while "the moon is
a sliver tonight" placed seventh. Both poems are slated to appear in
Comrades upcoming anthology, 2001.
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