Life is Longing For You

I still say I’m not much for being a poet. That being said, this song came to me in a dream. One of those vivid dreams where even when you wake you’re left to wonder if it was real; some kind of deja vu. I was walking through an alley on a rainy afternoon, everything was tinged under a blue filter. A soft, almost jazz like sound filled the air, and I was inclined to find the source. The tune was romantic, yet heartbreaking, reminiscent of a lover in sorrow. I wasn’t running, yet I moved quickly to find the music. As I grew closer, the sound of words became clear and the alley ways shifted from blue to subtle red. Not an eerie kind of red, but red like the sunset and soft. Finally, the words became clear and resounded so beautifully that I stopped in place and closed my eyes to sway in the painful loss of the lyrics. A moment later I stepped out of the alley to find traffic speeding by on a busy street, with a woman standing in the middle of the road, singing without a care as delicate droplet of rain drenched her body. I caught the very end of her song, and watched in aw. When her song ended, she looked up at me and I could decipher the tears from the rain. I couldn’t help but begin to sing the words, and she smiled, happy that someone heard her.

When I opened my eyes the song was still playing in my ears. I grabbed my cell phone and quickly jotted down the only lyrics I could remember. To this day, I hear that song as clear as drops of rain.

My life is longing for kisses

Longing for misses

My life is for seeing us through

Bring back your smile

Bring back your style

Bring back the silvery moon

Then shower my heart

It’s yours from the start

And tell me I’ll see you real soon

Because life is for kissing

You’re all that I’m missing

My life is longing for you

Fueling the Writer

I don’t know what to do. Life, as it does, managed to throw a wrench in my plans again. My entire, albeit, short writing career, I vowed not to fall into the stereotypical idea of what drives a writer. We all know the widely held theories of writer’s fueling off anger, angst, Absynthe, and depression. What makes a writer great? Loss, despair?

Thomas Wolfe posed great discussions of his novel, You Can’t Go Home Again. Many writer’s struggle in a conflict of early life and later learn you can’t go home again. F. Scott Fitzgerald, as with many other authors, leave a legacy of alcoholism shadowing their genius. Tennesse Williams, a playwright prodigy, said he could only write of what he knew. Reading A Street Car Named Desire was almost a mirror reflection into his struggle with family.

How many writers and artists fall by the wayside of the stereotype? If there was one thing I was ever able to claim it was that I never fit neatly into the category of pained writers. Now, surrounded by loss, grief, and sometimes guilt, I find that my writing suffers. My words and thoughts were never propelled by anger, angst, despair, or alcohol, yet readers who have read my writings might be inclined to think otherwise. My words are dark, sometimes lost in sorrow, but always seeking out the light. They are in no way a reflection of my life.

Now, sitting in the dark at 3am, suffering from a raging fever, weighed down by a million stressors, I find that my writing is not any better. If the loss of a parent brought me anything more than just a hole in my life and silence in my home, I had hoped it would make me a better writer. How’s that for selfish? Fortunately for me, I don’t struggle with conflicts of my childhood, parents, family, alcoholism, loss, or depression. I know we only live to someday die. And that the in between is where the stories are. Life hasn’t thrown a wrench in my plans to ruin my life. . . it’s only allowed me to pause and evaluate what I have. I have stories. Sometimes a wrench in your plans is the best plan.

I still don’t know what to do. Well, that’s a start.

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Petals on a Rose

The poem my mom asked for only days before her passing. She said, “You need to write a poem about not being able to fix petals falling off a rose.” Maybe she knew her time was short. I never got the chance to read it to her.

Rose petals from mom’s casket spray in her favorite green vase

If you were here with me you would see
A million memories of us drifting free

The days we laughed and days we cried
The years we spent together side by side

Those days are now remnants on weary dreams
And yet I hear your voice in all I see

Your scent has left, but your smile not lost
Those days we owned were worth the cost

I want you back, but my heart now knows
You can’t put petals back on a rose

 

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Mom Knew

Since the time I put two paragraphs together my mother was always there coaching me on. I can’t remember a single time she wasn’t bragging about even the tiniest of my achievements. There is a lot to be said of a mother’s pride. No matter the venture, no matter the crazy idea, mom was always there to be the ultimate cheerleader.

January 12, 2016 at 0200 in Victorville, CA, my cheerleader left the game. The event was sudden and without warning, though part of me looks back and feels that she knew all along. As a nurse I’ve heard stories of patients who could pinpoint the date of their death; some seemed fairly healthy and would simply exclaim, “I’m going to die tonight.” And they would.

Though mom did not make a big announcement of her impending doom, I’m still convinced she knew. The signs were there, I just didn’t see them. On her Facebook page, only two days before, she posted a link on how women perceive heart attacks differently than men; the biggest clue was women said they have heart burn. Well guess what mom complained of the next two days? She begged and begged and begged me to write a story about The Girl Who Danced for the Man on the Moon. Of course I complained that the title was too damn long. But I asked her why she was so emphatic about that story and she replied, “I envision a woman who just regained her strength, dancing for a man who is on the moon. She knows he’s there, and he watches her from a large telescope, but she doesn’t know he’s watching.” I asked if there was religious implications, given mom was one the best Christian women I knew, and she said, “I see myself dancing for God, and I know he’s there, but I don’t always know if he’s watching.” Unfortunately, I never got around to writing that story for her.

However, mom asked for a poem, and I explained that I wasn’t much of a poet. Three days before her passing she said, “Write a poem about not being able to put the rose petals back on a rose.” Weary of her constant requests I told her I would give it a try, but not to expect miracles. As I looked at my phone today, I realized I had written that poem for her only hours before she had passed. I was going to have it printed out on a picture and frame it for her . . .  that time will never come, but mom got her poem out of me. I’ll post it as a stand alone blog. Again, I looked at the words behind the poem, about the loss, the memories, and about beautiful things in life that cannot fixed, and I think of mom. I think how she loved everything I did even when I hated them. I think how her own death has given me the opportunity to write about loss in my fiction, and be able to pour my heart and soul into the words.

The end has not found my mother yet. She will continue to live on so long as I write. My experience in saying goodbye will be her legacy in print.

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN