Day 8

Today's PAD prompt is to write a poem about family.  This is written in response to the tragedy that has befallen the Humbolt Broncos SJHL team. My family stems from hockey roots, as do so many Canadian families. We ache for the Broncos families.



Team Spirit

When Daddy’s family came to Canada
they settled in Saskatchewan, became
farming folk north of Yorkton.
He was a strong, athletic young man,
tall among his peers, muscles
toned atop the thresher in the heat
of harvest time.

Winter provided an opportunity
to pursue other interests:
school, carpentry, friendships.
The local ice rink was the place
to meet friends, impress the girls,
play a game of pick-up hockey.

Hockey.
Always hockey.
The Brandon Wheat Kings were watching
and Daddy was ready when a call came
from down south.
He played a season with the team
until a stray puck
to an unprotected head
ended his potential career.

His teammates stood behind him
through his road to recovery,
encouraging every small step,
and supporting him through setbacks
along the way.
Long after his skating days were over,
teammates stood with him
on his wedding day,
celebrated every meaningful moment,
faced every challenge,
and eventually carried him on their shoulders
to his final resting place.

These boys are not teammates,
they’re brothers, both on the rink
and off.  Family.
Ties bind them as solidly and smoothly
as the ice upon which they skate.
What happens to one
happens to them all
and they will remain brothers
throughout it all.

My mother and I did not share an easy relationship, and there are many issues that I still am working on resolving and letting go of.  She died in March of 2005, and I do think of her often.  I've missed her since she departed this world.  At first, I think it was more a sense of loss over a relationship I longed for but was never able to cultivate with her.  Recently, I've come to realize that I miss her for herself as well.  This is my first poem to acknowledge that.

Homesteading

Mother’s beliefs float overhead, drifting
light as balloons in the early morning breeze.
At times, they might dip downward, her
thought bubbles bumping into mine, but
mostly I try to keep mine to myself.

They’re all that remain of her now, outdated
points of view from an archaic time.
Perhaps, I’m the only one who can see them.
Although, sometimes when I close my eyes
I hear her words echoing from my mouth

and I realize how strong her layers of
foundation are in me.