“I can’t sleep,” I whisper.
I am seven, standing at the foot of my parent's bed. My father is snoring, and the rain is pounding steadily onto concrete. I imagine the worms coming up for a swim somewhere in the grass.
“I can’t sleep,” I say again, but I only hear the bed squeaking as my mother shifts to her other side. I can’t tell her I’m scared. I can’t tell her my brothers shoved me in the linen closet when we were playing hide-and-seek and left me there. It’s dark in my parent’s room, and I know it’s silly, but I am frozen, too scared to get any closer. I feel for her feet through the covers and find her big toe.
“Mom,” I plea. “Wake up.”
I am outside the room now, looking in. Sunshine passes through the blinds, bending horizontal shadows across the floor and bed. My mother is Irish dancing in her closest mirror, smiling to herself and giggling as her feet move like fluttering canaries across the carpet. I watch her like I’m watching a secret being born, one eye’s vision obscured by the doorframe, the other peaking in like a spy. There is no music, but my mother tilts her head side to side, fast and rhythmic. It makes me laugh to see her as giddy as a child. She catches sight of me in the mirror and stops dancing. Her eyebrows furrow, her eyes narrow, and she marches towards me, screaming, “You’re not supposed to be here!” She slams the door, taking the sunshine with her.
I am older, a teenager now, and my nose is touching the door. Behind me, I hear crying coming from down the hall. When I turn towards it, I see a light at the end of it. Whose house is this? I wonder, following the hallway’s path, because it is my mother’s sobs I hear. At the end of the tunnel, there is a red, floral-patterned couch, and my mother is steamrolled flat across it. In the corner, there is a fireplace made of brick, covered in framed photographs from my childhood, but I don’t recognize the room. I didn’t grow up here.
“I can’t sleep, Mom, you’re being too loud,” I say, turning my head back to the couch, but she is not there. She is stepping out of the kitchen on the other side of the room, stumbling and limping, clutching a cane between steps. One of her hips is jutting out to one side, and she is wrinkled, fragile, and frail. When did she become like this?
“Mom!” I run to catch her before she falls, but when I get there, she is already on the floor. She is a child, a small girl, pulling her bloody knee into her chest.
I pull her petite body into my arms and rock her. “Mom, it’s OK, I’m sorry. You can be loud. I didn’t mean it.”
The little girl who is my mother stops crying and smiles up at me. “Carry me,” she says in her childish voice.
I nod, and as I stand to lift her up into my arms, she grows bigger and bigger. My arms try to spread wider and wider, but they feel like they are expanding past their limits. I can hear them snapping.
“Mom, wait! Stop!” I cry, but it is interrupted by a loud crunch.
I only know there is blood because my hands are wet with crimson. When I look down, there are bodiless antlers pierced through my ribcage, and my mother, she is standing in front of me, watching me smear the blood around my chest. I am trying to patch myself up, but there is a strong wind whistling through my wounds. When I glance at my mother for guidance, I see her lips are moving as if she is speaking, but there is no sound leaving them.
“Poor thing,” I say, and then I stand and press my thumb into the bridge of her nose between her eyes. Gunk gushes from her eyelids, and she snickers like it tickles. “That’s better,” I smile. She smiles back before skipping around me and down the hall where the sunlight no longer reaches.
When I try to follow her, I find myself sitting across from my mother at the dinner table. She burps and then swipes a cloth napkin across her thin-lined lips before leaping from her seat. I watch as she skips around the room, yelling, “Look, honey, I’m flying!” And then she does. She flies in circles around the room, and I watch her tornado dislodge every fixture on the wall. Glass shatters all around as our frozen memories disperse across the floor. I dip my green beans into the mashed potatoes, wishing she didn’t forget the gravy.
As the sky turns red, the locusts come. They find their way through small cracks in the walls, vents in the floors, and keyholes in the doors, and soon they are swirling all around us, devouring our still-warm food. They come quick and leave even quicker. In a flash, mother and I are face-to-face again, both of our plates now full of squirming white maggots. My mother stabs a fork into one, and as she slides them into her mouth, she looks right at me: “Try them. They’re delicious,” she hums.
I open my mouth to scream at her, to tell her not to eat those nasty things, but the words are a silent string being pulled from my throat. I can feel them scraping up my esophagus, letter by letter, and I watch as my lost words turn into pearls, twisting and curling around my mother’s wrist. She laughs as she stares at the forming bracelets. “They’re real, you know?”
I squeeze my hands around my neck, and the sound of forced air from my lungs takes us back to my mother’s bedroom. The rain is punishing the windows for keeping it outside, but my mother ignores its banter as she folds the knitted blanket I made for her. "You don't need this. October is always so warm," she says.
When she places it on the bed, she pats the top of it, and I notice the brown spots on her hand. She’s no longer young; she’s no longer dancing or flying. She doesn’t have horns anymore either, just wrinkled skin and a weakened smile.
“Next time, you teach me,” she says.
I stand at the foot of my mother’s bed. It’s empty, and I’m a grown woman now, but I crawl up it anyway. I curl up right in the middle, sliding my feet into the sheets, imagining my mother on one side, my snoring father on the other.
“I can’t sleep,” I say to no one.
And then I hear the rain tell me, “You already are.”
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Wow, AnneMarie this was a little different. Nice twist on the prompt making it all dreamy. The concept definitely gave you a chance to exercise your poetry chops :)
Plenty of imagery and a lot that is open to interpretation, so I will give it another read before the end of the week.
The work explored the relationship to a parent, and how that unfolds over a lifetime. In this case, the relationship with the mother was complicated. The father features less, but his snoring is very symbolic of sleep, so his presence is important
It seems from the final paragraph the two parents have died, or at least don't have the same influence in the MC's life. The use of worms can symbolize death and burial, so that is possibly setting this up at the beginning (also maggots later). Screaming at the mum to wake up also implies she has died.
The Irish dancing was a very beautiful representation of life and energy. When her mother was young. Possibly the MC is transposing memories of herself and her own childhood on her mother. I.e MC did Irish dancing as a child, but sees herself in her mother's place. Towards the end, the way the MC screams at the mother is kind of the way a mother would scream at her daughter , so this aligns with that mother /daughter switch as well.
The discomfort of the whole piece, feels much like the complex relationship was left unresolved. Like there is more going on than just grief, like regret. Maybe bad things were said, or there was some estrangement.
Like I say, I'd like to read this again. I love this kind of stuff. Much of it is so vivid, I suspect it is based on actual moments you have experienced in dreams. If not, great imagination!
Beautiful poetic work. Loved it!
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Whew, this is an incredibly insightful analysis and I am so so so grateful for it, Tom. Thank you!
You caught me - this was directly from a poem I wrote a year ago when I was dealing with my mother's diagnosis. So the death, the complicated relationship, and reflection of all its phases - you hit the nail right on the head. Reading your comment was almost like hearing from a psychoanalytical therapist. Should I venmo you? 😂
I wanted to do something different. I've been experimenting a lot in that way ... I see writers doing incredible things I could never imagine doing in my stories because I tend to think so linearly. But then I remembered, hey! I do nonlinear stuff in my poems all the time. So it seemed to work :)
Can't thank you enough for your insights and all your support. It's really truly appreciated.
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Ah, I'm sorry you have been through all of that. It's good that you can find some closure in your art :)
I find the poetry to prose shift quite interesting. Like where does one end and the other begin?
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Art is the only way to deal with anything in my opinion. :)
I took a workshop and we talked about the line between poetry and prose. The best way I've ever heard it distinguished is like this: Prose is like talking, and poetry is like singing. Some of us are great at both, and some of us prefer one over the other. As a singer myself, I find a lot of truth in it.
Thanks again, Tom.
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Ah cool. Then from now on, when reading Beowolf's thoughts, I will hear them in the voice of a virtuoso soprano blasting out an aria :)
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What? I'm a bit confused. Was the girl dreaming?
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That was the idea. Thanks for reading, Emily :)
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The way I interpreted this is a series of images or memories running through the daughter’s head in the form of a dream. A piercing sadness at the changes life has brought to her once vibrant mother, as expressed in the Irish dancing.
Some regret and a sense of being alone because no matter how much we love and care for our mothers, they have to go through some things alone. A sense of separation here that the girl longs to be close to her mother, but there’s a barrier.
There’s almost nothing harder than seeing the once lovely woman that gave us life suffering the difficulties and sometimes gross indignities of old age. The way the body reverts to a childhood one in which a person relies on others.
Here the bond between mother and daughter is felt deeply. The daughter loves her mother so much. There’s a poetry running through the piece. A Kate Bush feel. Though on a different subject, she wrote a song called The Dreaming.
Sadly, I got the feeling the mother was no longer alive.
“The rain is punishing the windows.” Great line.
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Hello Helen and thank you for such a beautiful analysis of this piece. This was originally a poem so you are spot on about poetry running through it. It worked best as a dream in prose form, so you got that, too. You seemed to really understand the depth of this - how roles between mother and daughter switch when old ages arises, and that barrier between the two is complicating things. Thanks so much for your thoughts.
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I did a story from a poem, but in the end I never sent it in. I then realised it had the makings of a novel which I haven’t got time to write 😂
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Keep it in your back pocket! You'll write it one day!
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I hope so. I am putting the finishing touches to a novel about ancient Egypt.
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Helen!!! That's AMAZING! you'll have to let us all know when it's purchasable!!
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Sounds like person speaking in tongues. A little confused. But I think there something to learn from that confusion.
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I think some dreams do feel like you're speaking in tongues! Thanks for reading, Philip!
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My pleasure.
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This is a brilliant description of a dream, the normal blending with the imagined and mundane becoming terrifying. The scream being stuck in her throat. That's a regular event in my nightmares. Horrible. Just a well-written story!
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Thanks for reading, David! And yes, the loss of voice is a powerful, nightmarish, and recurring image. I'm sure us writers and creators experience it more than others.
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Very different approach AnneMarie- loved it!
The path through life, moments of ages, and how it all circles back… wonderfully written.
This reminded me of “100 Years” by Five for Fighting. Have you heard it?
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Thanks Nina! I really had fun writing this one .. I haven't heard 100 Years but I will search for it!
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Sorry to hear so much of this comes from your real traumas but you turned it into art and the truth of it shows through. Well done.
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The imagery and recollection were beautiful. I liked how I was taken through the story, like I was whisked into a new scene. It felt physical. Interesting choices and really well done.
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Thanks for reading, Hazel! I wanted to capture the strange physical feeling of being in a dream, and not being sure what's real and what's not. I appreciate your feedback!
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This is a really interesting piece. Dementia, aging, fear, death...all of these I'm either journeying through with my parents, or staring down, like your tunnel. Because of this, I found your piece a little uncomfortable, like too-tight shoes, but the best literary works should be like that, I think. I really resonated with this one, and liked it a lot. Thank you for sharing it.
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Thanks for reading Carolyn! This was certainly an unusual piece. I like your image of the the too-tight shoes. I think because it is so abstract that it has the power to touch us in our most tender spots. I appreciate your thoughts and time!
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Ooooh clever story. Vivid descriptions that made me feel so uncomfortable. Some great phrases - so imaginative.
Great story.
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Thanks for reading, Stevie! So many people have used this word "uncomfortable". It is so interesting to me to see how readers perceived this. Thanks for being one of them and for sharing your thoughts.
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Somehow the nonlinear aspect of the story brings more clarity to the daughter's goal of being heard, and seen , but Mother is unable to.
Space and time limit the meanings of stories sometimes, thanks for reminding me!
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What a profound take away, Marty! I agree. Being seen and heard (or not) was an intentional message here. Thanks for reading!
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The writing is lovely and deeply uncomfortable, where we focus on regrets and disappointments both at a young age and at an old one. This clearly focuses on the child-mother relationship, throughout what appears to be the mother's life, and I believe, right into dementia. At least, that's what the mother being a little girl again tells me, and the confusion of the later scenes.
The core of the story, to me then, is about communication. More specifically, it's all the things that went unsaid, and no longer can be said. From the very first scene, the child explicitly says “I can’t tell her I’m scared”. The mother chases her off when she's caught dancing - we understand this isn't hatred, but a private moment she didn't know how else to react to.
Later in the story, the mother speaks but produces no sound, and so does the child at the dinner table:
“When I glance at my mother for guidance, I see her mouth is moving as if she is speaking, but there is no sound leaving them” - not sure about “them” here.
“the words are a silent string being pulled from my throat” - love this.
Their roles gradually flip as the mother's condition deteriorates (again, I think this is dementia but I may be wrong here - just aging could be the cause too).
The end though, hits like a freight train. On the one hand, we have closure. The story begins with the child not being able to sleep, and now, we learn, they are asleep. For better or worse, the mother's struggles are done, and the child has peace now. If we want to think of this as a happy ending, we understand the child finds some solace in the memories. Finally, it's relief. But, I'm not convinced it's a happy ending. Another way of looking at it is, the child is asleep, now that the mother is gone - which means they were only awake while she lived. This is the end of hope - all those unsaid things remain unsaid forever - and the rest of life is a grey, rainy dream from which there is no more waking.
A lovely, sad tale, Anne Marie - best of luck!
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Anyone who attempts to interpret this is incredible in my opinion. I know it's confusing, but dreams usually are 🙃
You've picked up on a lot of what I think is going on here, but I think one of the main key points you touched on is the communication, or lack thereof. There's silences, strange reactions, and confusing dialogue scattered all throughout. It all indicates misaligned communication and misunderstandings.
Dementia, maybe. It hadn't occured to me when I was writing it but that doesn't mean it's not there. I think I was trying to convey how relationships change over time, and sometimes we have to be the parent or caretaker to our parents. Dementia seems to fall under the same umbrella, though.
Ah, thank you for catching that strange "them". "Mouth" seemed to be the troubling word there; I've changed it to "lips" which is what I originally intended.
It was such a pleasure to read your feedback. Thanks so much for all of it!
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AnneMarie.
Where to dive in. Is it a dream, is it a nightmare, is it a dream again? I think sometimes things happen and they don't seem real for awhile. Then they do seem real. And then they don't again. And then they do. Our mind dances as we try to comprehend our reality. This feels like that. A dance between what was and what is as our protagonist sifts through her relationship with her mother. A very beautiful piece. The poet in me very much appreciated the imagery all throughout. Things like "I watch her like I’m watching a secret being born" and “You’re not supposed to be here!” She slams the door, taking the sunshine with her.
And it is a dance, isn't it? When we think about who someone is to us, who we are to them. Always stepping through the memories trying to define it and grasp it and hold it like sand. But there's too much to hold it all. And no matter how hard we try, it's impossible isn't it? A child, who is a young women, who is a mother, who is a fragile elderly thing. We all hold so much inside of us. So many relationships, roles, and memories. And then it just... ends. Leaving behind something like pearls, don't you think? Are they real, do you know?
Anyway, I have no idea how I should have interpreted this for you. This is what my INFJ brain pulled out of itself. Thank you for sharing this story.
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Danie, your comment is beautiful, deep, and spot on.
"Always stepping through the memories trying to define it and grasp it and hold it like sand. But there's too much to hold it all."
"A child, who is a young women, who is a mother, who is a fragile elderly thing. We all hold so much inside of us."
Both are incredibly potent observations and analyses. They hit home in a way that I only could feel without articulating. I'm so grateful you've shared them here.
There is no wrong interpretation, fellow poet. We bring ourselves to every piece and what's there is reflected back to us. Thanks for bringing yourself to mine. I appreciate your thoughts and feedback more than you know!
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Awesome, AnneMarie. As is Tom's analysis.
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Thanks, Mary! And I agree. Really thinking he should get paid for that one...
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This was extremely well written, and it took me on a journey. I’m thoroughly confused, I’m just not smart enough to understand I suppose. So, I understand that she was already asleep, but the entire time was she seven and dreaming? Anyway, LOVED this it was amazing! :)
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This was a wonderful story. Great job! You are such a talented writer!
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This is deep . I feel like this shows the struggles of the world and of people , and loss is prominent, and love, and growing up.
Very interesting format! I would never had thought of an entire story written in that way. Amazing :)
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