The Watchtower
‘Shattering’ is the only word she ever
spoke to me, her daughter. She lived in
its shadow. I am the child of guarded
words. I grew up behind walls of silence,
never breached by careless questions.
It was how she protected herself and I
honour it. It was a bitter truth to learn.
Before, I felt shut out by her facade of
containment. I pounded at the drawbridge
of her besieged life like an emotional
battering-ram. She held fast. As I sulked
in the tent of youthful self-absorption, I
thought she did not care. I was wrong.
My father assailed my mother’s integrity
during their forty-year marital blockade.
I was a Trojan horse, sent in to spy behind
the lines. But, like all informers, I served
both sides and said nothing. She, too,
was immutable under the Greek fire of
his verbal abuse. He was a traitor who
derogated her suffering, so she turned to
stone. After my father’s death, stalemate
turned to truce and we regrouped, both
battle-weary. We forged a new alliance.
My mother was the watchtower that kept
me always in her sights. She was remade
from her darkness into my searchlight: a
beacon to my distress-flare. Under its
guiding beam I found my way home.
Second Guessing
Pointless to speculate why
you were not there yesterday
when we planned to meet.
saw the warning signs when
WhatsApp displayed its grey
noncommittal ticks. It’s quite
normal for you to be hijacked
by life’s sudden convulsive
chaos. I don’t imagine the
worst anymore as it’s already
happened; several times. It
might be your phone broke,
you had a fight with your
other half, or you fell back
into it or simply had no credit.
I still went to your address
as it was on my way home.
I looked into blank windows
and rang the dead doorbell.
I sent you a photo of your
front door so you know I
tried. Right place, wrong
time, I guess. I know there
are places no friend can
follow because I’ve been
there too. You’ll come
back online when you are
ready. Experience belies
all second-guessing when
silence has its own subtext.
Image Credit: © Paul Larson
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