Via negativa
After Cass Donish
My childhood was not exactly
shared. I came along so late
I missed out on a lot. Of the siblings
I can reach, one says we were lucky
to survive, and one gets stuck
repeating we were loved.
My childhood is not somewhere
I want to go back to, except
maybe a summer evening with
lawn darts, lightning bugs,
and having my hair washed
under the hose with strawberry
shampoo. Or a snowbound
Sunday with fresh cinnamon rolls,
Dad warming up the truck
so we can go sledding.
I’d skip past the bottle under
his bench seat, me peeing
my snowsuit so I won’t be
the baby cutting our fun short,
and afterward, the slap
of the back door when Mom
blames him for getting us too cold.
My childhood wasn’t violent
but it wasn’t always safe.
Along with sawblades, snakes,
and rusted nails, there was
how quickly Dad could shift
from playful and teasing to loudly
furious. One night, Mom
announced she’d had enough.
She led us through the half-
dark streets until I cried
because my legs were tired,
and then she took us home.
In a photo from around that time,
I’m standing with Dad
in our driveway. You can see
the railroad tracks we lived
beside, the blue midwestern sky,
his big hand holding mine.
My childhood was not idyllic
or simple, and it also wasn’t sad
except in brief flashes I wish
I could forget. But even though
I’m running out of witnesses
to check my memories with,
I feel compelled to prove
that it wasn’t a myth.
Resolution
There were gunshots at Sprague Farm
when I took Jake to run. I tried
to guess their caliber and remember
the snow made them sound closer
than they were, but I still steered us
onto lower ground. The neighbors’
glitter spilled all over my doormat.
It caught the light so festively
I didn’t mind the mess. I tried
one of A’s writing prompts—
Describe a memorable teacher—
and looked up Mr. Karns. Target
was so noisy and so bright I left
with a headache. My mom
would never buy a single can
of corn, but that was all I put
into my cart. Twice this week
I’ve read how people have to cope
the way that they know how,
which I assume includes with holidays.
My closet’s not that full, it’s just
disorganized, so when I took down
the tree I also straightened up,
then finished the squash soup
in front of the TV. Jake always
gets upset at fireworks, and yet
last night he stayed asleep without
my comforting. I don’t expect
this year to be completely new,
but I plan to pay attention to what is.
Carrie Shipers’s poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, New England Review, Prairie Schooner, The Southern Review, and other journals. She is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Grief Land (University of New Mexico, 2020).
Photo credit: Flo Dahm