The Painted Swing (Revised)

The Painted Swing

The cold takes my breath,
but I concede, give myself
to the strength of worn slats,
grooves made by the many
throughout the years.

I embrace the feeling.
Between hormones and liquor,
the hard cold is a relief
embraceable and real.

I say, into the phone propped
on shoulders drooping more
each year, "I had to do it,
Mom. It's my job."

I had to go into the room
where my father took his last
breath, pay attention to the words
of another in that bed where his life ended,
become a vehicle, a lifeline,
the mourning daughter
an aside.

I can't remember why I felt
compelled to tell her. Maybe
because I wanted her to know
she wasn't the only one suffering,
this conversation taking place
many years after my father's
death. Maybe because
everything has always
been about her, about her needs,
about her losses. Maybe
because sometimes life is about me,
about my hurt, about my joy,
about my simple act of courage,
maybe because she has never
acknowledged anything about me.

And I can't write this poem
because I am thinking
it is a poem and only a poem.
But it is not. I know that is a lie
I tell myself to keep the myth
howling like a lone wolf seeking
its kin. Mine is a life. It has blue veins
and broken capillaries. It has grey
eyes--my father's eyes--it has the requisite
components of misery and joy: aches,
longings, swollen eyes, unanswered
questions. It is many lifes. It is about life.
And, it is about me, someone who doesn't
know me well enough to know how
to explain this moment about me.