I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog

My daughter.

Marina. TS Eliot.

It has been twenty years — the interminable march of time, unceasing. Children have been born and reached maturity. My house is full. I am empty. Set apart at times from the chaos and laughter, insulated by grief.

There is someone missing at the table. The shadow catches the periphery of my vision. I made this. I have forgotten, and remember. At times I feel as if I have been preserved in amber, caught on the event horizon of the void that rests at center mass. Some nights I walk the halls like a ghost, searching for something I’ll never find.

I remember.

And yet, the leaves are filled with children, their laughter shaking shadows from the trees. The silvery laughter of the long, lanky, brown-skinned girl. The sharp hooting of the boy who can never quite master silence. The loud protestations of the dark haired, dark eyed girl that I dreamed into existence, now a woman, beautiful in her ferocity. They are the pieces of me worth carrying on. I remember the warmth of the desert sun and I smile. The agony abides, but I remain.

I cannot forget the first time I knew love, however. Golden hair, eyes like a storm — her heart so complex it was nearly perfect in its imperfection. I had not known that love so pure could exist. Fear came with it.

This face, this form, this life – living to live in a world of time beyond me. Let me resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken — the awakened, lips parted, the hope. The new ships.

O my daughter.

Oh, my daughter. I do not dream of you anymore, having erected a wall inside my mind. Each night I dreamt of you, and each morning I lost you again. My mind could not take it. I came undone, and I had the dark haired one by then. She saved my life, as did you — each one of you anchoring me to this wretched place. I stay because of you. I stay because you were the birth of hope and I cannot seem to rid myself of it.

Dark, dark, dark — they all go into the dark.

I don’t fear the dark, often I crave it, but these anchors — they keep me here. I have known love – why would I leave it? However weary I become of loss, I cannot help but believe there is love just over the horizon. How have I lost so much while gaining more? It is illogical, but you defied it all. You laughed in the face of impossibility and kept dancing, your laughter golden in the darkness.

Here we are, between one June and another September — still. There is laughter in the trees, the sunlight still slants across the surface of the pool, I still see your face in theirs, especially the youngest. You would like her. She is defiant and sweet and brave and soft, like you were.

Oh my daughter.