“Precipice”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-23)

 

On the precipice

Peering down into dark depths that await my fall

A place I fear, going forward in time

But also as a memory from my mother

When I was very young, around the age of four

She had just given birth to my brother, her third child

Postpartum depression sent her into isolation

With my maternal grandmother offering care

Father worked 16-hour days

And stood in the pulpit on Sunday

The family coffers stretched thin

So I was sent to Columbus, and our family farm

No longer an active, agricultural spot, in truth

With educators swelling our brood

But a safe space away from the affliction

Which was barely understood in that era of old habits, and convenient fiction

I think of her courage, now

Beloved mater

She told me it took a decade before her wellness returned

And I remember those uncertain episodes

When we were shielded from the struggle

My sire stayed strong, and silent

He never explained or excused

But telltale signs made us whisper and wonder

Mother locked herself in the bathroom once, in Virginia

I still do not know why

Now, when my body grows tired and sore

When aches and woes gather in number

I think of the zone into which she descended

And pray to be spared from the same

Art has always been my refuge

The trouble tree, where I leave my cares

Since that time of youthful exile, I have fled to the comfort of music, drawing, and books

MAD Magazine issues on the reading table

A portal toward deliverance

A flirtation with chance

In years that followed, the paradigm remained set

A medicine, I could not forget

I pause at the keyboard, still

With a similar curiosity about self-help strategies

That made me climb a tall maple

Barely past my infancy

And doodle out cartoon adventures

Amid sprawling branches, and fluttering feathers

Alone, but surrounded all the same

Confident in the continuum

The embrace of an unseen creator

Resonating on a creative wavelength

An unspoken connection bequeathed from my mortal link

Mother singing as she worked at the kitchen sink

Her voice, a treasure to receive

A candle lit to chase away the lingering gloom

To revive, through love

Hope of healing

When my right hand shakes furiously, like a clattering car with bolts coming loose

I hold fast to her ethic

Her determination to survive and grow more able

So that we would be protected

That cause kept her focused and fixed

On defeating the tricks

Of a mind turned upon itself, with drastic results

Godly, and respected, she was, at church and home

Yet likely to trip over loose stones

Scattered across the course of her life

I remember the grace she carried, in meeting challenges, face-to-face

At the precipice, I wait

With her encouragement still in my ear

And a kiss on the forehead

Rather than stumbling on the rocky road, instead

I will choose

To trudge through the maze

To journey toward a better place

One page at a time

Inked-up and registered, line-by-line

A printer’s response to the tempest

Which still makes my insides quiver with need

I never feel completely certain that these storms have abated

While I abjure my stain

Never wanting to walk that path of pain

The one that my mother knew for so many years, while busy with her chores

I feel guilty, in the balance

Yet connected in a wondrous and indelible way

Her broad-winged soar into the sunset was also mine

She flew first in the aerial line

Our fates divided by only by the artificial ticks of a clockwork device

Which now is my metronome

It keeps me in rhythm

As I edge backward from the cliff

Clinging to vines at my feet

When this cycle is complete

I will join her in the cure

Of graduation