A short
story in a poem
The one who was supposed
to suckle me on
belonging and warmth –
and how else could one learn of these things? –
and
was supposed to teach me how to
love and
forsake –
for one
cannot be without the other, I guess. –
and how to forgive and forget –
as cliché as this may
sound; –
the one who was meant
to show
me some of the basic ways of
the world,
such as dissimulation, faking empathy,
and the importance of
not hurting the ones
you love,
or supposed to love –
unless it is
ultimately necessary, that is,
in case of conflict of values, interests and such; –
the one who was
meant
to teach
me
the absolute need
for communication by touch;
the one who was supposed
to see the
world through the
filter of my being, and my smiles,
my
desires and my cries;
the one who was initially intended
to
help grow me strong,
strong enough to rather the world,
myself
and the various complexes she herself would
necessarily
imbed in me:
oedipal,
manic-depressive,
melancholic,
psychotic,
megalomaniac,
possessive,
messianic,
etc.;
the one who was supposed to do
all of
the above, and much more,
who was initially intended to do so,
and more,
before God in
Heaven,
or the
Devil in Hell,
had a change of mind,
and heart,
and soul…;
the one who should have,
but
ultimately did not…
cried havoc,
on the same minute
of the same hour
of the selfsame
day,
of my
inauspicious,
yet unavoidable,
and perhaps even necessary
b
i r t h.
She cried havoc, she reeked holy terror, she oozed hell,
then,
she cringed a little, just a little,
on the wet and blood-soaked bed,
spasmodically clinched
and
un-clinched
her fist,
for few
hapless moments,
peed
all over
me…
and
died.
She died.
Pity!
Her eventual substitute proved weak, careless and
incompetent,
at least by
my standards,
and
they are, I confess, rather exacting,
which is why she
too had to die –
though
not as soon as she should have, I admit.
The two, perhaps, not too ironically,
now lie in
the same tomb,
the
same small ugly-looking tomb,
just next to my
father’s own,
and my father’s father’s,
just beneath my
contemptuous feet.
I spit.
I lay the necessary bouquet of flowers,
murmur
the meaningless age-old prayers,
make a show of
hypocritical affection,
for the
benefit of my
undesired,
unwelcome,
unneeded
and
downright sycophant,
even
macabre,
audience…
Then I leave.
This will be my last such visit.
I smile.
March 2001