When I Learned to Breathe Underwater

This is another poem written during my time in undergrad.

When I was thirteen,

my grandmother came to live with us.

First she slept on our leather couch,

then in an addition to our house

my father always said

he would never build.

She never treated me kindly,

he’d say.

She doesn’t remember that,

my mother would reply.

Well, Mom has a point,

I’d think,

because--by then--

Mawmaw didn’t remember much of

anything, anymore.

 

But that didn’t stop my mother

from trying over and over again to spark

some recognition, some familiarity,

from her mother,

who only stared back at her

with blank eyes,

while my mother’s own became like

leaky faucets

that dripped, dripped, dripped

onto our hardwood floors--

floors that sometimes smelled like urine

whenever Mawmaw had an accident.

Mom and I would clean up these messes together

with rags we still keep.

 

You’re such a good granddaughter,

Mom would say,

her eyes glinting,

her hands like gossamer.

I always nodded

but never said that

sometimes I felt like we had resurrected

a family dog--

a dog that had died before I was born

and that I never had a chance

to make memories with,

and remember fondly,

the way only my mother could.

 

During those early years,

Mawmaw was always getting into

so much trouble,

whether by breaking an antique

of my father’s,

or a family heirloom of people

long gone.

After those accidents, Mawmaw would

walk off, her tail between her legs,

muttering words that sounded like growls,

for all the sense they made,

while my father bit his tongue clean off.

 

But during her final years,

Mawmaw only sat,

and never gave any indication

that she felt much of

anything, anymore.

So my mother’s tears became crashing waves--

swells that soaked everyone

to the marrow,

and made Mawmaw only stare,

while the rest of us learned to breathe

beneath so much salt water.

 

Author's Note

I remember not getting very good feedback from my professor on this poem. She said it didn't make sense and she was confused, so any suggestions concerning clarity are especially welcome!

Reviews

[Lisasview]

Well, as I sit on a train from Madrid to my home south of Alicante, I am reading you heartfelt words for the first time.
I do not understand why your professor felt confused and did not explain why.
The issue for me is that this is more like a short story and not a poem. Sort of like a page from your personal diary.
There are so many good thoughts and words in your story.
All you need to do is to not make it so personal.
Sort of like you are a fly on the wall watching what is going on… if that makes sense.
All your thoughts around your mothers tears is rather wonderful.
Perhaps you might like to read some of mine.
Like Cry or Hand-In -Hand
Lisa, from California, now in Spain