Poetry is a great form of expression. This quarter I took a Contemporary Writers course. I also had a few difficulties afflict my life. This course helped me cope by giving me a reason to write poetry.
Based on the writings of Aimee Nezhukamathil, I created this prose poetry piece. I turned this in for my final for the class, and am quite proud so I wanted to share it on this platform that I love.
I wrote this in the midst of heartbreak. I have since healed and am living my best life. I am hoping to show other people that things will always get better. Just keep holding on.
Four Seasons:
Momma whispers
Wait, wait for a man who stays
Who stays with you all four seasons of a year
Just wait honey
Summer
My worst season out of a year undoubtedly. It is something about being perpetually sticky and the glasses sliding down my nose every minute. The heat tickles the small rage inside of me out. I stay inside and secluded as much as possible.
With you.
You and I fell in love during the summer. We planted a seed into a pot. Cultivating it. I watered and watched out for little pests. Stem pushed out of the soil and leaves began to sprout. Your rough calloused hands placed it on the living room windowsill, to get the best light you said. We watered it with the sweat dripping down our backs onto your leather seats and the condensation from our RedBull drinks. I looked forward to an endless summer cultivating our plant.
But, like all things, summer came to an end. You became restless and knocked our plant off the windowsill. We broke, broke up, our barely sprouted relationship laying there on the dirty mess of the floor.
While I vacuumed up all the dirt, you wrote me notes about your tears. I knew better than to turn around, but I did, and you held our relationship in your hands, the two little stems that split apart into two leaves clinging to their roots, asking to be replanted.
I repotted our plant and moved us to the middle of the kitchen table. That will be safer you said.
Autumn
I love autumn. I love the feeling of the world shedding all its layers of old to make room for the new masterpieces it will make next year. I always like to shed layers like the trees in autumn. I had a few other plants in my house that were wilting, browning, the cold chill drifting, seeping into the walls haunting them. I got rid of plants that were dying, not going to survive this winter, this cold. I neglected these plants.
But not our plant.
It had sprouted more leaves and more stems erupted form the soil. I had hope.
I moved our plant to my room, so it could be where the heater could keep you warm. Nowhere near a window just in case. That is a good idea you said. You hate the cold you said.
I welcomed the cold and you shriveled away from it. One side of our plant began to wilt. I could tell it was affected by the darker, colder days. It shrank like you shrank. I wrapped around you to try and take it all away, just like I kept our plant near the heater, and kept my window open to give it as much light as possible. Sharing kisses over hot chocolate and giggles in between our fights.
Winter
I love the cold, the winter, the endless winter, but this season was almost unbearable.
But not as unbearable as you.
You became so cold. You told me our plant was dying because of me. How do I warm up a shriveled side of a plant? You put our plant on the windowsill again. The cold bite into each leaf, both sides were now shuddering, desiccated. I asked you to try, try not to knock it down, an anticipatory step. You got so mad for asking for more. I wanted you to try to care, to wrap around the leaves as I have been wrapping around you. Your anger almost slammed the plant onto the floor. By that time, our plant had already grown so tall and wide. It would have been a shame for it to end there. We had taken root in each other’s lives, families, friends. Secrets had been whispered under covers. One fall our plant had survived, I told myself we could do it again if you did something.
Fixing is what I do. I took the plant out of your hand, and we talked our way to setting the plant back on the kitchen table, where it was safe. And it was safe.
Become the sun you said, and I did. And I became the sun our leaves needed. You unfurled as I mimicked the sun, smiling and laughing. I dribbled water to our roots by spitting on my hands, covering you with my liquid, licking your wounds, and turning the cheek when I felt your ice reappear.
The winter had not treated us well, but we were to come out stronger. Little blemishes were left along our leaves. Little brown spots I tried to cut away. They kept growing, but I kept cutting. That’s normal, we repeated to each other. I talked about the future, our home, our hearts. Too nervous to tell you the inattention and indecision of your life made the plant slip closer and closer to the table’s edge.
Spring
The mantra, four seasons, blared in my ears once winter went away. ‘So close,’ I told myself. So close and once we are there it will be smooth sailing from here. Then I would know how to take care of our precious plant every season we faced. ‘Four seasons,’ I told myself. Over and over, repeatedly. I was ready to start the monotony of coupled life, just one more season.
You were not.
You walked into my house one night and threatened to push the plant over. I screamed at you to stop. To save us one more time. One more time. That this would all be a mistake. The plant could live and thrive. Look at how green and lush it is. Look at how buds are forming. Let’s get to summer and the plant will be in full bloom. Ignore the brown spots, I will get rid of them.
You looked into my eyes and pushed.
“I can’t wait to see what you do with your life” Lies, lies, lies, dirt whispered as it scattered over the carpet. “Maybe I will change my mind” Lies, lies, lies, screamed the leaves as they ripped hitting the floor. “I won’t see other people, I will not move on soon, I only want you,” Lies, lies, lies, thudded the buds as they hit the ground. Then I was alone.
Our plant laid on the floor for a week.
Then I vacuumed the dirt out of my carpet with the affirmations of friends, books on my shelf, and the songs of a muse. I toss what was left of us, roots, leaves, bulbs, into the trash.
Then I planted a seed in a new pot.
It sprouted yesterday. A singular stem, I can tell it is trying hard to grow a leaf for me. My plant. My plant that I will nurture as I wait.
Patiently, I shall wait. Wait for someone to walk, run, dance, gallop through the seasons with me.
I know momma, I am waiting,
I am waiting.
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