IN TRANSIT by DeAnn Louise Daigle

I like small; I like small

Places, I like tiny figurines, I 

Like miniature paintings, small boxes,

Small jewelry, small uncomplicated

Life-style, small notebooks, small

Books, small computers.  I don’t know

Why I’m that way, I just am.

The more I think about Mom, the

More I wonder.  I never really knew

My mother.  She kept big secrets

From me, really big secrets, I would

Find out about and not have the courage

Or the know-how to ask her real questions

Or, was I afraid to find out that

What I’d heard was true?  And then,

What about Dad?  I loved him so

Much, then when, after Mom had told

Me he did not drink, I found that he

Disappeared periodically and this was in

Fact because he did drink.  He made Mom

Cry.  I was angry with him.  Why did he 

Not just stop drinking?

It did something to me as a young

Child to be getting half-truths, double

Talk, and protective untruths.  Somehow,

I had to muddle my way through this

Maze to find in life who I really

Was; and could that truth, would

That truth really be so bad, so incomprehensible

That I would rather die than go on

Living?  Why could Mom and Dad

Not just be honest with me?  Why

Did they feel so protective of me, so

Much so that it actually complicated

My life, making me timid, shy,

Reticent about what I was, who I

Was, and what if what I was

Told was true – about Mom – about

Dad – about me?  What if it were

True?  Could their love for me not

Hold me, shelter me, protect me?

Or were they so unfinished themselves

And so not quite grown-up yet

Themselves, that dealing with the 

Consequences of the truth-telling to a real

Other human being, another child apart

From themselves but part of them,

Be too, all too overwhelming?  Would

Having the truth come out be so

Awfully devastating that the unbearable

Would become the …? 

There were whispers in corners, in

Hallways, in the room at the bottom

Of the stairs.  I only heard portions

And I knew secrets were being

Kept from me, and I knew but

Didn’t know.  I always didn’t

Know until late in adult life

I just had to know – for sure,

For truth, for my own locked up

Inability to grow and become truly

Myself – to become myself.

And so, I justify the book.  My

Husband, my Jim, tells me I

Ought to embrace my book, be

Proud of my book – and it suddenly

Occurs to me that I treat my book

The way my mother treated me.