By Katherine Harris Szerdy
She who grew up during the Great Depression
and the Second World War,
In the shadow of the Diamond Alkali's smokestacks,
Ash raining down upon rooftops
In a village with a church and a bar on every block
She who grew up within
stone skipping distance of Fairport Beach
On the southern shores of Lake Erie,
In a loving home with two parents,
Four brothers, a sister and a dog
She who hid behind a perpetual smile,
who attended church every Sunday,
a teetotaler whose drink of choice was
a cup of Tetley with milk
like her English father
She who was the obedient one,
who never cursed or smoked,
the third daughter but the first to survive
Diphtheria,
who struggled in school while her
siblings excelled
She who died a little inside
the Christmas Eve her brother,
so handsome the girls in town swooned as he passed,
a veteran of the war and the first to
graduate from college,
the hero of the family,
fell asleep at the wheel,
killing his fiancé and himself
She who married a
handsome
hot-tempered
hard working
honorably discharged
Army Sergeant who rarely missed a day
at the Diamond
She who died a little more inside
the day her mother, her protector,
went into cardiac arrest following a simple
surgical procedure at the age of 52
She who was a meticulous housekeeper and
loved wedding white and
milk glass and
blonde furniture and
Jack and Jackie Kennedy
and bed dolls dressed like brides and southern belles
She became a hoarder,
First filling up one house
So they bought a bigger house
-- she filled that one too
With knicknacks and
Magazines and
Avon cosmetics and ...
Eventually the stuff, like an amorphous
creature with seven pairs of arms
pushed away those who loved her,
replaced those who loved her
Now she is gone.
A white graduation tassel,
A copy of Little Women inscribed by her mother,
A broken Timex stopped at 4:47
A divorce decree
and a mound of bills are
All that remain of a life of 81 years,
All that remain of 8 decades plus one.
Was it the Great Depression
Or the deaths of dear ones
Or a doting parent afraid of losing another daughter
Or a chemical imbalance
Or the devil himself
That made stuff
Her drug of choice,
That fed the dark creature
With a voracious appetite,
Was it the persona or the shadow
Chance or choice,
Nature or nurture
that pushed who she was created to be
over the edge,
down
down
down
into the delusion that
we are happy by what we acquire
not by who we appreciate.
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