Brenda's Child

         Brenda’s Child

I’m Brenda’s Child, inside and out.

See, she died when I was four,

 but her memory lives on in me.

So much that at times I feel

I’m doomed to repeat her destiny.

It’s scary that she died at 23,

because that’s just a few years younger than me.

Breast Cancer was the culprit that took her away, you see.

But her memory lives on in me.

It’s more than just her physical features,

it’s what my grandmother told me when she said

I had "her ways."

Her love of art and how she moves.

Her desire

to just want to take care of others.

So much that at times

she ignored her own health.

My mother put everyone

 she loved before herself.

And when I came of age

and was trying to discover me, 

in my confusion,

I had to recall

her memory.

 And now I have “Brenda’s Child” tattooed on me.

Because that’s me.

At times I’m hurt

 that she’s not here to see

what I’ve become.

And I know she would have been

 the best grandmother to my son.

But instead of concentrating

 on what I lost,

I pay tribute to what I’ve gained.

Her blood in my veins,

her qualities

that show through in me,

 her memory that will always be,

and all the things that make me…

 Brenda’s Child

 In memory of:

Brenda Kay Swinton

February 8,1959 -

 September 4,1982

 Mommy

 Dream-like memories,

flash like scenes from a movie,

like when she tried to show me

how to toss popcorn in the air

and catch it in my mouth,

I was no more than three,

when we had tea parties,

early I learned that orange juice is drank,

from orange juices glasses,

and apple juice had its own as well.

I remember the smell of baby powder,

when I nestled under her

in the wee hours of the morning,

pleading her to wake up

so we could watch Saturday cartoons,

and every 5 minutes,

she’d promise me, “Soon, soon”

Then there was that time,

when she was in the kitchen,

fryin’ chicken,

and my daddy crept up

and scared me.

Later, we all laughed.

 Dream-like memories,

I was about three

when I insisted as

she motioned to me

“No, I said ASS-PIRIN”

(When I really didn’t

add the P-I-R-I-N)

I looked to my grandmother

for rescue, but I knew,

I was getting popped in the mouth,

And I did.

See, she was raised in the South,

so when the cab driver asked “Where to M’am?”

and I answered…

Well, I tasted her hand.

Or at least the finger tips.

Never hard, just enough

To make me hush,

For a little while.

 Matching blue flower dresses for the family portrait

Learning to outline the edges, before

coloring in

Lacy dresses, with gloves and tights,

White patent leather shoes, and a matching purse,

Which she’d stuff with chips ahoy cookies

(and a napkin) when she sent me to church.

I was four and a half

and she let me have

her jello, when we went to see her

at the hospital.

Then one day, we didn’t go anymore.

Her voice I don’t remember anymore,

I just have these dream-like memories,

That occasionally flash before me,

Like scenes from a movie.