Bio Note: If I didn’t write, especially poetry, I’d probably be up for autistic in five languages. A German-born UK national, I now live in Lima, Peru. While my heart occasionally rummages in German, my mouth speaks Spanish, my spirit is playing in English, and I often have to look up a French word in the dictionary. My latest poems have appeared - or are forthcoming - mainly in US poetry reviews. My fourth poetry collection, The Rain Girl, has just been published by Chaffinch Press in Ireland.
She shares memories about their dads, mums, siblings—some of them dead— mulling over the good times, the patient time, relationships they formed, indulgences, good will, a hot dog, love. She looks at films that take you back to family tables, to cozy lunches, suppers, or somewhat acrimonious ones. They made up. Of course. She sees wholesome images of families doing stuff together, holidays, picnics, chasing cows, splashing in shallow rivers. Coloured photos from a time that tears you up just thinking about it. Everything was wonderful; some terrible guitar chords, the sing-alongs, everyone knew the lyrics. The old cars romantic partners in wooing or just driving across the continent to new pastures, missing mum and dad. She’d freed herself from family bonds, making friends where she found them. She never missed her family. She misses missing them.
What You Don't Have
I remember wanting to be petite, milk-coffee coloured, black eyed. I imagined blue-black hair rolling down my back, small feet dancing along the roads, long-fingered slim hands finding flowers in the air. Instead they made me big-boned and rosy, blonde and blue-eyed, hair so fine it couldn’t be platted, big, capable hands, and feet of a size for which it is hard to find shoes in countries where the petites live. Living ‘on a big foot’ is the literal translation from German: auf grossem Fuss leben. It means spending easily, not caring too much about money. My mother declared me a lost big foot ‘just like your father’. Exasperated. I have resigned myself to being what I am, never quite accepting that I didn’t have a long-limbed, olive-skinned Ethiopian grandmother somewhere.
©2021 Rose Mary Boehm
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