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B.Beecroft-Berard - Poetry
“I choose not to live my life ‘flat-line’ but to revel in the mountain peaks and valleys of emotion. I don’t get a great deal of calm and quiet at my job so I search it out whenever and wherever I can. We all need to have that balance in our lives,” says Barb Beecroft-Berard. “I was born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta but now reside in Red Deer. I love the proximity to every natural area in our region – mountains, lakes, natural trails and even dinosaurs!”
The final push and she was there.
My sadness filled the joyful room
as my swollen belly finally
gave up its filling, its squirming life.
I felt immense joy, gently overlaid
with not-quite-melancholy.
An overwhelming loss of fullness.
An ethereal awareness
of movement, wriggling toes within
and yet also flailing arms
outside my personal space.
A feeling without definition.
A word I would search for
in explanation of my tears.
Tears of unbelievably sad joy
for I knew this feeling
could never be replicated.
It could never feel like this again.
This feeling remained a mystery
through many years of her life.
Poison ivy, chicken pox,
the first time we truly talked as equals.
When she had outgrown
halo and wings, I told her
of my feelings the night she was born.
How I couldn’t find the word
for such sadness within the joy.
Then, I remembered the story
of a grandmother who set the table
with his favourite glass in his place
at the head of the table
as she has done each day for years
and who speaks about her day, laughing
then listening for his reply.
The war is over and the letter sitting
in its place on the mantel
tells her each night he is missing.
Still, she waits for his return
wondering as she falls asleep
why it’s taking so long
for him to find his way home.
I remembered the story of a young son
who sat quietly on the rocks above the sea
watching daily for his Father’s
trawler to rise above the horizon.
Wondering what he will feel like
at the celebration of his Father’s return
neither able nor willing to move past it
and accept the impossibility.
Years pass and though his life goes on,
his perch on the rocks
continues each day until the sea
and night sky appear as one.
I remembered feeling so much empathy
for a friend whose husband
developed Alzheimer’s and even
though she knew in her head
he could never again share the happiness
of their twenty-five years of marriage
her heart still ached for his return
so they could continue their
loving relationship.
Then one day I heard it.
An unremarkable comment
on some TV show,
“Saudade – it means the sadness
we feel for happy memories.”
The word came from Brazil,
evolving from the Portuguese language
and it sounded like such a powerful word.
It gave me strength to say it.
I knew this was the word
I had been searching for over my lifetime.
One word, the one word,
to explain such an overpowering emotion.
Not simple nostalgia – longing to
recapture a pleasant memory.
Not just mixed feelings of sadness
and joy but a deep longing, permeating
my present and future with such
positive hopes for the impossible
reoccurrence of my dreams, desires.
This knowledge now made me feel whole.
There would never be another time
I could not explain my tears
to the people surrounding me.
I would finally be able
to tell them all what I was feeling
with a definition more real
than anything found
in my English dictionary.
This symbiotic relationship
between the joyous and sad
parts of my experiences
would never be feared again
for I now understood
the depth and breadth
of each pivotal point in my life.
I finally found peace in it all.
We stand so close together
Sharing this intimate tranquility
Arms touching; shoulder to palm
Softly inhaling the space between
Scents of forgotten flavour float
Mingling with perfume and wine
Quivering echoes escape our lips
As we drown slowly in our gaze
You whisper warmth into soft hair
Nuzzling cheeks; my silk to your tweed
Pulsing flames lick at my heart
Fanning our desire
Feather-soft hints of touch
Light as poplar’s spring birth
Floating across sun brushed floors
To satin sheets and down
Volcano erupting, monsoon breaks shore
Tornadoes fury swirling, twisting
And then for one brief moment
We are suspended in our love
As with each dawn, life is reborn
The soft sounds and mellow light
AND FINALLY,
The dark, deep sorrowful dark,
of winter. Knowing there was no
escape. Not from the deep white
frozen tomb. Not from the
frigid broken down home
where my agony began
and never seemed to end.
The bed I’d made where now
I was made to lie with the
demon love of my childish dream.
The dream, seen through
naïve eyes, in negative.
Falsely believing the negative light
was his shining armour when in fact
it was his monstrous, soulless skin.
This long prairie winter with its
grizzly bear grip on my plan for escape.
Winds howling, growling, through
the tar-paper walls; so thin the
mid-morning sun shone through them
before the blackened windows.
Thoughts, black as those windows,
embryonic as a mist impregnated by
the dark and dank stench of despair.
Thoughts of escape, of survival
through the months ahead.
Plots for compliance with avoidance.
Scurrying out of harm’s way
like the little rodent drawn
by dried bits of bread who darts
about this way and that to avoid
the broken straw broom.
Harvest done and now only
Thanksgiving to survive in this
cold October. While others are
thankful for abundant crops and
homes full of love, I am just
thankful to be alive; for being
able to draw breath each morning.
Thankful it was only a splash of
steaming coffee yesterday and
a cuff on the ear today.
November snowstorms and
Remembrance Day, when the rest
of the world thinks of its fallen
soldiers and the families they left
behind. I try in vain to remember
the feeling of deep sleep
with eyes closed, alone,
secure in the barren room.
Christmas with its gruesome gift,
the snowshoe hare, eyes bulging,
tied with green and red ribbon.
Chopping more firewood, in slippers
stuffed with rags, praying my
near-frozen fingers would make
the axe find its mark in the wood.
My New Years’ resolution
told to him – to be a better wife.
Told to myself – to not be a wife.
Survive – grow stronger – live.
Resolutions I must keep just
to myself. Moving me forward
each day instead of back stepping
to the unsafe past. I would
make this my year to disappear;
my year to get away with
or without the help of the
few friends and family I was
permitted to speak to
yet never allowed to be alone with
in case his secrets were told
or my shame uncovered.
Weekly trips to town to buy the
few necessities and bottles of rum.
The hurriedly written note to
keep the extra cash in a safe place
for me. Begging the woman behind
the counter to not say a word but
to nod if she understood the danger
I was in. Her blessed nod confirming
the cash would be there whenever
I could come for it. Adding a few
more dollars with each visit
to the little country store.
Easter comes and goes with only
a crushed finger from the
smashing ham bone punishing
me for clearing the table too slowly
Early spring, thankful blessing,
which means more outdoor
work away from the confining
stench of winter. Every trip
to the little store, and hushed
questions about the little
cache, feeling stronger, more
alive, more able to think about
when and how to escape. Was
it to be during this weekly trip
or during the still-cold night
after his drunken snoring
scares even the owl from its
perch in the elm?
The last snows blocking the
road, and my courage, for yet
another week in May. Finding
the voice I need to still quiver
in fear on the outside but
strong enough on the inside
for moving fast and methodically
down the back road toward
the haven of the store when the
time was right. Knowing
the little lady will have my cash
to get me away.
Spring rains marching across
the fields making it impossible
to seed. More than usual acts of
defiance – dangerous times to
show my hand. The vile smell
of Lamb’s Navy on tobacco breath
filling the room with each nightly
stupor and snores hauntingly
similar to the passing of the
weekly train. Perhaps this mournful
sound has given me hope
for my final exit.
The next trip to town and the
note furtively passed again
to my angel in the store. Will
she buy a ticket on next week’s train
or is there enough money put
away? The quick nod of the head
and the all too familiar look
of understanding. “Come next
week after dark and I’ll be here waiting.”
Thoughts of my escape must ooze
from my pores and he knows. He
must know my plans or he wouldn’t
be near me every waking moment
breathing on my back, twisting
my hair around his earth-caked
stubs of fingers. Ripping my clothes
into wide strips to use
as junk rags to polish the old
John Deere, leaving little left
for me to hide for my escape.
Weekly trips to town forgotten as
the sickening click, click of the
double barrels freezes my will
in my veins. Threats of next time,
how the gun will be loaded,
pushing up under my quivering chin.
The depraved look from cold eyes
whipping me down, low to the ground
like the fox devouring an egg. Sucking
the courage and hope out
of my now toothless face.
No more trips to town for me. Certain
I will try to run, he tosses my
only pair of shoes down the well,
laughing hysterically as they splash
one, two, into the dark abyss.
The summer is almost gone and
still I can’t get back to my friend
in the store. The back roads dry.
The time is close to try my plan so,
like the squirrels in the fall, I hunt for
two hiding places. Places he never looks
to put away what little I have left. Two
small plastic bags; one in case
he stumbles onto the hiding spot
and the other to carry through
the dense bush near the back road.
The day he finds the first package, he
thinks I should learn to fly from the loft
like the barn owl sleeping unaware
in the rafters.
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