As of this writing, I have a silent mourning for my grandmother. No, I meant my other grandmother on my Dad's side. Even though I have never met her, and even thought my grandmother on my Mom's side was of much more importance, I still hold a piece of my heart for my other grandma. Actually, she is in the hospital right now, but I have no doubt that she is ready for the next trip, as I will be in, oh, 70, maybe 80+ years from now...
Just kidding! She's actually doing well in the hospital right now, so you don't need to hold your breath. Still, this piece is dedicated to her, my other grandma, wherever you may be, strong as ever. This is, again, from Maron's perspective, about a few months after her parents come back and matriculate into her life. Something critical happens...and I'll say no more
********
Rosebud Phaerietaylez
Chapter 9:
That'll Be The Day, Obaa-san
Mother, why are you on the phone?
I'm just curious.
Is there something wrong?
You are devoid of any emotion,
Straight-faced,
As if you had been intoxicated
With a straightjacket
Laced with tranquilizers,
Causing excruciating numbness
As you trod this barren earth.
Explanation? Any? What?
Just tell me.
It will be our little secret.
But then again, what are secrets?
Are they little rainy-day packages
Created by the Rain Maker,
In which his customers
See the little packages
When he is finished?
Is a secret a sprite,
A little wench that flickers
Hither and thither
Like a juntenshi?
(Like you care.)
I used to have one
As my friend.
It was a little secret
That I want to share with you,
But can't.
The words won't come out.
Now isn't that a swell thought.
I choke cherries like
J. Alfred Prufrock,
That guy romanticized
By T.S. Eliot,
In which he tries to say
"I Love You,"
But the words
Won't come out.
For in that room, the women come and go
Talking of...Mr. So-And-So.
I only laugh dryly, hoarsely, chokingly
(To put it in "sophisticated" perspective)
At the abundance of redundant innuendos
Of his lack of romance,
Which I used to had, and was happy with,
At least for a little while.
I still want to know what is wrong.
I look at you,
And you are still emotionless.
Here I am, full of energy,
(Sexual in particular)
Breathing a rhythm divine
While performing my routines
For the upcoming meet
Next Sunday.
And here you sit,
Glued to the phone,
Your eyes blank,
Bloodshot,
The color ripped off your face,
And all life and vivacity
Desecrated without objections
Or second opinion, or even third.
I blink once,
Blink twice,
Maybe even rub them
To pretend I'm not seeing
A wax replica of yourself,
Mother.
I wait one minute for an answer,
Two, three, four, five,
An hour, a week, a fortnight,
Until you respond,
"My mother passed away
At the hospital? No!" you gasp,
Shocked at this "development,"
And suddenly,
I get a major headache,
Faint into bed,
And everything comes back to
Me.
When I was a baby,
And you were still with me,
I opened my eyes
And saw
What looked to be
My obaa-san.
She looked cheerful,
Vivacious,
And had seen both
World Wars come
And go.
After that, I never saw her again.
If she was still alive,
I would say to obaa-san,
Gomen nasai. I wish I knew.
I never met you
Ever since I was a child,
A lost one,
Drowning in a sea of
Disenfranchisement.
I wish I knew more about myself.
Now, I won't have that chance.
Honto, honto gomen nasai...
********
End Chapter 9
Maron Kusakabe IS Momokuri Academy-inside out! Anyone agree? Show of hands~~~~! She's just like me in some respects... Um, hehheheh, go on and review.
Just kidding! She's actually doing well in the hospital right now, so you don't need to hold your breath. Still, this piece is dedicated to her, my other grandma, wherever you may be, strong as ever. This is, again, from Maron's perspective, about a few months after her parents come back and matriculate into her life. Something critical happens...and I'll say no more
********
Rosebud Phaerietaylez
Chapter 9:
That'll Be The Day, Obaa-san
Mother, why are you on the phone?
I'm just curious.
Is there something wrong?
You are devoid of any emotion,
Straight-faced,
As if you had been intoxicated
With a straightjacket
Laced with tranquilizers,
Causing excruciating numbness
As you trod this barren earth.
Explanation? Any? What?
Just tell me.
It will be our little secret.
But then again, what are secrets?
Are they little rainy-day packages
Created by the Rain Maker,
In which his customers
See the little packages
When he is finished?
Is a secret a sprite,
A little wench that flickers
Hither and thither
Like a juntenshi?
(Like you care.)
I used to have one
As my friend.
It was a little secret
That I want to share with you,
But can't.
The words won't come out.
Now isn't that a swell thought.
I choke cherries like
J. Alfred Prufrock,
That guy romanticized
By T.S. Eliot,
In which he tries to say
"I Love You,"
But the words
Won't come out.
For in that room, the women come and go
Talking of...Mr. So-And-So.
I only laugh dryly, hoarsely, chokingly
(To put it in "sophisticated" perspective)
At the abundance of redundant innuendos
Of his lack of romance,
Which I used to had, and was happy with,
At least for a little while.
I still want to know what is wrong.
I look at you,
And you are still emotionless.
Here I am, full of energy,
(Sexual in particular)
Breathing a rhythm divine
While performing my routines
For the upcoming meet
Next Sunday.
And here you sit,
Glued to the phone,
Your eyes blank,
Bloodshot,
The color ripped off your face,
And all life and vivacity
Desecrated without objections
Or second opinion, or even third.
I blink once,
Blink twice,
Maybe even rub them
To pretend I'm not seeing
A wax replica of yourself,
Mother.
I wait one minute for an answer,
Two, three, four, five,
An hour, a week, a fortnight,
Until you respond,
"My mother passed away
At the hospital? No!" you gasp,
Shocked at this "development,"
And suddenly,
I get a major headache,
Faint into bed,
And everything comes back to
Me.
When I was a baby,
And you were still with me,
I opened my eyes
And saw
What looked to be
My obaa-san.
She looked cheerful,
Vivacious,
And had seen both
World Wars come
And go.
After that, I never saw her again.
If she was still alive,
I would say to obaa-san,
Gomen nasai. I wish I knew.
I never met you
Ever since I was a child,
A lost one,
Drowning in a sea of
Disenfranchisement.
I wish I knew more about myself.
Now, I won't have that chance.
Honto, honto gomen nasai...
********
End Chapter 9
Maron Kusakabe IS Momokuri Academy-inside out! Anyone agree? Show of hands~~~~! She's just like me in some respects... Um, hehheheh, go on and review.
