Self Portrait as a Cedar in All Seasons
Third daughter of a former POW and his beautiful wife
Who had dark, long curling hair, deep blue eyes and multi-personalities.
She had a tiny waist until the babies started coming
And even then it was tinier than most who had given birth.
Maybe that’s because she chose to be a little girl when birthing her own.
He loved her with his PTSD heart; kept his parchment fed with Jack Daniels
To forget the Nazis, the German shepherds, the lice,
The killing he witnessed and the killing he did.
But his daughters, ah his daughters – they were different.
For them he was gentle, much gentler than a father should be.
I was the one who loved running through soft,
Sweet smelling cedars while he chased from behind like a big brown bear.
He stayed silently strong as we pushed the plow together
Through hardened fields when no rain came that summer.
Even taught me to roll his cigarettes which later became a social skill.
He didn’t know what else to do except for the times he cried.
That Christmas we chose the saddest cedar tree of all.
Branches reached toward the sky and called “Pick me, pick me!”
Ax blow felled it; then placed in a bucket, it touched the ceiling.
We hung painted bottles with silver icicles that the hound ate.
Our house was so small that it was built by fairies in the night.
Front door knob was nothing more than an old wooden sewing spool,
A pattern of breath in a steamy broken window;
Imaginary friends kept us from darkness,
From the little girl who was trying her best to raise us.
Then she was church lady who never wanted children,
But felt guilty all the same for letting the little girl have them.
She could see them all dancing together from a distance,
The church lady, the little girl, the three daughters and her man.
Yet she could never remember what they told her was done
When she wasn’t around and it was puzzling to her, to us and to the soldier.
I ran to the woods to hide, thin blanket beneath me, looking at clouds for answers.
Cedar branchlets brushed across my cheeks and rested on closed eyelids.
We were gentle daughters trying to make sense of it all.
I was the one who loved running through soft,
Sweet smelling cedars while he chased from behind like a big brown bear.
We watched Bonanza as he brushed my hair and we were safe for one hour
Every Sunday night, after fried chicken and spiced apple cake with caramel icing.
Orchard apples fell and made us their slaves each summer,
Picking, cleaning, peeling, cutting, canning and watching them rest in comfortable jars
Until the next apple pie or apple cake was baked, until church lady asked
Where all the apples and their concoctions came from
And why was he brushing my strawberry blonde waves
When I should have been working in the orchard?
Why was Bonanza and hair brushing more important than her?
Whisked by fury, frenzied in an out-of-body movement,
She cut my hair to the scalp like I had a fight
Over a game of marbles but I was only a little girl hiding inside a shell.
She made me go to confession and ask God’s forgiveness.
Penance was short hair that I wore without fussing, without a care.
She looked at me and cried, wondered where my long curls were,
And why my strange appearance scared her like the devil.
So I put my arms around her and told her all would be well in spite of my hair.
I did this because that’s what the soldier did to me and she was comforted as I was
comforted.
The next spring I tried playing softball but was never good at it
So I tried kissing boys instead and that worked out for me,
Never knowing skinny legs or big lips could be seen as pretty.
Those legs would push bicycle pedals so fast they were nearly invisible,
Loose branches browning into rust, leaving a wake in my jetstream,
Falling to the ground when I slapped them with my hand, flying on winged wheels.
Paired twin cedars hugged country roads on each side as I rode onward,
And they laughed with me when the wind blew strong and even when it didn’t.
I liked broken boys and stretched skyward to find them,
Kissing them and laughing when winds surrounded me or not.
I painted my face like fancy bottles on the cedar at Christmas.
I was the one who loved running through soft,
Sweet smelling cedars while he chased from behind like a big brown bear.
Rita S. Spalding has been writing poetry all her life as a wonderful form of self expression and release. For many years, she was a member of Women Who Write. Previous publications include the National Library of Poetry, EX-POW Magazine, and the book Abstract Ribbons. As a member of Women Who Write, she presented workshops on how to create biographical poetry. She also assisted in planning the first two annual Kentucky Women’s Book Festivals. Life took a few turns and her writing was dormant until recently. Now living in Murray, Kentucky, she is a full time student at the university pursuing a degree in sociology.
Next Poet: L Shapley Bassen: Uncle Phil & Niagara was a Coral Reef & Pegases
Pegasus 