I come from a long line of suppressed creativity.
my mother would rather read
than eat,
my father gave up his drum kit
for a pill counter. 
and they've all
sacrificed
something
for the Lord. 

My mammaw 
(mom's mom)
raised three kids
and a husband,
he was a soldier
an auto mechanic
an electrician
a plumber
a contractor
a construction worker
an apartment complex owner/manager
all the while
a deacon
an elder
and a preacher.
and she
cooked his breakfast
lunch
and dinner.
ironed his shirts
made his bed
drew his bath
stroked his soul
encouraged his study
and fed his heart.
my nena 
(dad's mom)
was the wife to a crazy man.
manic
they called it eventually,
crazy
they've called it always.
a former sailor,
next
a man with a briefcase
and a mad brain.
she cooked
and cleaned
and listened
and held him
I imagine
as he cried
in his mania
and his craze
and his
pain. 
she raised my father, 
an only child,
she, an only parent,
and he
watched through the fog in his mind. 
she got a job
after raising my father to adulthood
as a receptionist
at the electric company,
as if her submission
hadn't been defined enough. 

these are
my
truths,
perhaps imagined all this time,
but true enough
for their development
as characters
in my story.
their suppressed
creativity
is now my expressed
actuality.

September 7, 2005