Nocturne

Life is a canvas we paint on each day, starting off with the brilliant sunrise of dawn, as we grow toward the nocturne of our lives, with the purple dusky serenade of night to come. We can paint our days as colorful as we wish; or we can end up with a muddy composition written entirely in the minor key. I miss my parents. Of course, one always does, when they have passed from this earth. Certain times of the year, or smells, sounds,- evoke an emptiness that can become palpable, if we don't get busy with our paintbrushes and make the memories bright and exuberant on our canvases, which I mostly always do. As Mother's Day approaches, I am missing my mom more than ever. I was very close to my dad, had a tumultuous relationship growing up with my domineering mother, yet as I have blogged before, became best of friends with her before she passed in 2002, a month short of her 90th birthday. I wrote the following persona poem nineteen years ago, and it was subsequently published in an anthology.

In a recurring dream, my father had died. I wrote this poem imagining my mother's voice, of what might come to pass when he did eventually die, out of empathy for the elderly condition. Several months later, my dad died suddenly, while on vacation.        

                                            NOCTURNE 

Another one gone, just like that, taken
as though stealing a gem,
no need for sirens anymore. 


We'd only played Gin two nights ago; 
I'd complained my arthritis was kicking up. 
She laughed at my excuses, then said, 
"I feel lucky." 


This photograph in black and white 
gives a flat, unreal image of 
the colors, the textures, of taffeta, 
chiffon, velvet and satin, 
we girls in our formals, with minks 
draped around us, the men in tuxedos 
with fresh boutonnieres. 


Martinis, Manhattans, Revlon's "Love That Red" 
lips, and matting the shine of callow skin 
before we took off in assorted pumpkins for 
The Nocturne Club. 


Saturday nights spent under a mirrored moon-ball 
that sprayed diamonds around the darkened room, 
as we danced to Glen Miller's 
String of Pearls...


Did I preen longer in the women's lounge 
because so many husbands flirted with me? 
They said that I looked like Loretta Young; I coyly 
blushed, under well-rouged cheeks. 


Now I look in the mirror, and only see Death, 
crooking his gnarled finger at me. 
In this time-worn photo, my eyes are as bright 
as my taffeta gown, of emerald green. 


"Four o'clock," I whisper, to the man in the picture, 
with his hand on my shoulder, and a smile 
that held promise. I pour the cocktails: 
A Manhattan for me, a Martini for him. The Big Bands play 
soft, in a minor key. 


"What a shame about Helen, so suddenly," he'd say. 
I stare ahead, nodding, 
and not toasting anything, wait 
for the liquor, like Novocaine.


(Copyright © 1993, and may not be reproduced in any manner.)