The Things I Couldn’t Say

The Things I Couldn't Say

I am the past, present, and future.
Sadness, anger, and peace.

I tried to write a poem
To tell you how much turmoil was in me
But I realized I didn’t want to say that.
So I decided to start over and begin there.

I’m so angry with her. The me who didn’t know.
She didn’t know what I would want.
She didn’t pick the right things. 
And I could just strangle her.
I’m so mad.
I’m so hurt because she didn’t know.
She got in my way. 

And when I take a moment to see her, to really listen to her. I see her.
(I almost see me.)
I hear her say, Don’t blame me.

She’s sad. Very sad. Alone and isolated.
She’s unsure because she doesn’t know.
And she’s afraid.

But then I look at her and see there’s more.
It’s not only sadness, it’s anger, too.


She’s angry at me? I don’t understand.

Yes, I’m angry at you.
You made me so afraid. 
You told me I couldn’t trust myself.
You made me keep searching for better ways,
Afraid to make mistakes.
You couldn’t just let me fail, and learn.
You had to have it all together. 
I just wanted to be.
It’s all I ever wanted.
And you got in the way.
You wouldn’t let me live.

We pause 
in our turmoil. 

The red smoke swirling around us
A mix of coming and going

But it’s dying now.
Or is it rekindling?

We see each other.
We see our pain.
We see we’re us.

We’re sitting together, I’m sitting with her
Cradling each other 
for the mother who wasn’t there.
Natural and nurtured.

We grieve for the things out of our control.
I tell her it’s OK.
We grieve for the things we didn’t know.
I said, we’ll be OK.
And what I notice is 
We’re doing it together
In that hospital bed
Me hugging her and she hugging



By Christina Lindvay

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