When we live through impossible things it’s easy to find it impossible to speak them. Silence can be important and wise.
Sometimes silence is self-protection. A holy necessity. Sanity when circumstances aren’t.
And then a day comes when the silence has to end. It’s no longer an option. It appears for me, today is that day.
A lot has changed in my family since I wrote this poem in 2019. So much has changed. But the most essential thing has not—
I am here, dear one. And you belong.
Roots
by Kai Madrone
I woke today with tears on my face.
In the dream it was Christmas.
Cozy and warm.
Yet something was missing.
I was with your great-grandparents,
for a holiday together,
the first time in ages,
feasting on Grandma’s
culinary gifts
just like when I was your age.
As we sat around the table,
it sank in—
they don’t have many,
if any
Christmases left.
And you likely will
never meet them.
I began to weep.
Quietly at first.
Then sobbing
strong enough
to shake me awake
into the pre-dawn
darkness.
Grandma turns ninety
this December.
Weeks later,
you’ll turn twelve.
(Grandpa passed
twenty-five years ago.
Our family’s women
outlive their men.)
And you will outlive us all
my dear.
But I mourn you still.
Even in my dreams.
Even after all these years.
For everything you’ve lost.
Everything we’ve lost.
And all the time
we won’t
get back.
The human psyche grieves
the passing of parents,
generations that came before,
but cannot comprehend
the loss of a child.
Much less the child
that is still alive.
It’s not something that knows
how to be talked about.
But dreams speak
the unspoken,
see
the invisible.
If you appeared today
Grandma probably wouldn’t
comprehend.
Dementia has tip-toed in.
The lines are close
to breaking,
another generation
departing.
While your young life
is unfolding
somewhere--
a stunning flower
reaching its beautiful face
to the sun,
even with the strength
of just half
its roots.
I’m still determined
to anchor us deep,
solid and rooted.
To welcome you home
to the nourishing
earth.
To the table.
To the family
you don’t recall.
To a life
that waits
to be
remembered.
—November 2019
I believe poetry is a song that is meant to be heard as well as read. For the full experience you can listen here~
P.S. It was very difficult to record this video and even harder to post it. The sensitive subject matter, the pain I couldn’t hide, the voice shaking with grief that is no less now than it was a decade ago when my daughter was disappeared… It took all the courage I could muster to publish this on the internet and leave it up.
I felt scared and vulnerable posting this piece but to my surprise, afterward I felt wonderful. It was as though this poem was a portal and as I spoke it a channel opened up and something that needed to flow through me and into the world finally could. For the next two days I felt vividly energized and could sense my daughter’s presence palpably near. I realized that this opening wanted to stay open and I needed to keep posting my poems.
While this blog is for you and I, everything I write and share here is in one way or another, for Riya. Whether it’s a celebration of life’s beauty, a piece where I’m grappling with an aspect of injustice, a story of my personal healing journey, or an exploration of what the world we long to inhabit looks like, in one way or another, it’s for my daughter.
The next generation deserves to not only survive the world we’re passing to them, but have the support that they need to thrive. Let’s keep healing ourselves so their load is lighter and let’s keep nurturing the new stories, systems, and structures that make it possible to live in a world where everyone can thrive.
I want to comment but I can’t find the words. I share your grief and loss. I too have lived/am living with this pain. Not understanding how this was even a possibility. And even more confused by a word inside of a word that is so misleading. “Just” ice System. And look what I just discovered. When you break them apart, the ice appears. How apprepreaux.