Cloudburst

Füsun Atalay © 2001

A golden moment in time ~ captured in genuine smiles
on young, happy faces of a mop headed little girl
with sparkly eyes and white, baby teeth -
exposed like piano keys behind her parted, crescent lips.

Next to her stands a woman, tall - pale and blonde.
Her lips look dark in a black and white snapshot of mother and daughter:
one sitting on a swing; other standing by- her hand on the ropes
slender, gloved hands clasped in a tight grip
before giving that gentle push to swing high
above the crimson, orange, yellow leaves of the park.

But you never let go of the ropes, have you?

I look at that photo that somehow survived so many moves
from cities to countries-
protected from storms- hidden between pages of a book -
spared from being lost.

That is the only reminder now of who we were ~
and how we have been torn apart by years !

I look at us : a mother and daughter team -
the wind-blown scarf of paisley prints brushes a velvety cheek.
smiling at an anticipated, shared dream.

I look at you now-
who still wants to set the speed, draw the map,
pull the strings, yet -
your arthritic fingers don’t have the strength to hold on.

You’ve become a stranger to me
agonised by her obsessions of holding unto a child
that little girl no longer is.

I wish I could dive into the lines of your once beautiful face
that was raped by spiteful years - pry my fingers
to smooth them out and dig down deep at the memories:

. . . grassy walkways under my bare feet, a pond with reflections of clouds
interrupted by a white swan among the pink water lilies. . .
flowers I had offered to you - their sunshine yellow petals,
radiating from soft, velvety brown bellies
long stemmed and thin- some kind of daisies. . .

How can I make you understand without breaking
the heart of that young woman who once held my hand-
without bringing clouds into those prosaic blue eyes
and making you feel unneeded, rejected, and alone ?

I have not travelled your path, but there is no escape.

My turn will one day come - when youth concedes to time.

Maybe by then you will not be around - but
I want to remember you as the foundation of my strength,
and the source of my joy - not as the bitter old woman
who had little purpose in life than to play with her daughter’s head
as if it were but a toy.

I still love you — but please, live and let live !

The ropes will slip - the swing will escape from your grip
soar above one day and sail away far ~

How do I make you understand ?

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2001 All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay