Born into a dwelling filled with creativity in the air

she breathed it in

it was like blood to her soul

oxygen needed to support her existence

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It was a time when men were men and women were women

little blending of roles

---

it did not fit her

it was the wrong size

---

She was one that needed to spread her wings

and fly with her talent

Live in a world full of adventure

and rejection to hone in her craft

She craved to face the perils artists

encountered on their road to enlightenment

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Instead she found herself in a sea of children

with no clue what to do with them

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She wore a mask of sorrow

no hope for tomorrow

Figured each day would offer the same routine

change the diapers

clean the toilets

cook dinner

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With her spare time she picked up her trumpet 

and visited the sphere she ached for

kept up her embouchure

like she was getting ready for her next gig

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She drew paintings no one would ever see

and wrote books never finished

sang songs only her babies adored

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Her glory days came when finances forced the need for her contribution

she worked as a reporter for a small newpaper

she was intoxicated by the acceleration she felt as she typed each word

her world was perfect

---

It was short lived

---

soon she was taken from her birth blood

to a place she had no roots

---

She did not fare well

moving from the sunshine in California

to the rain and doom Washington state often offers

was too much

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She spent little time with me and my sibblings

we were left to raise ourselves

fortunately we were now older out of diapers 

and carrying school books

---

I watched her fade away

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My father spent little time at home

he never recovered from the great depression

making money was his soul purpose in life

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She was literally alone with just her trumpet, ampex tape recorder and dreams

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She would put the telephone in the oven to prevent it from ringing and ruining her latest recording

those were the days when the phone plugged into the wall not carried around in pockets or purses

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The days became months the months became years

and her life stayed the same...

Drawing paintings no one ever would see

writing books never finished

had no babies to sing to

---

My siblings never caught the performers urgency

it was passed to me

I was unaware of the infection until I was a teen

then it start to rear it's beautiful head

---

My mother started to come to life thru me

---

It was so beautiful to see

---

She kept a scrap book of all that I did

each newpaper article and magazine that mentioned my name

brought breathe to her hungry lungs

---

We started to speak more

---

I would send her letters from places I worked

and tell her stories about the world I was now in

I knew she would grin

when she opened the envelope and read what was within

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Her mind started to leave her when she was too young

maybe from lack of use

Soon she could not read my words

she was in a another universe

one I hope never to visit

---

She passed when in her 90's

she had her journalist pass crumpled in her bony wrinkled fingers

up to the end

It was her moment of glory

so glad she had it

---

She most likely is now singing to the angels

with her beautiful voice

creating songs that WILL be heard by all

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She was a drama queen best of the best

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Here's to you mom

your baby girls is still at it...

 

By Lynn Hahn