an old writer and his words

  • LIFE, ABBREVIATION

    Arrival noted, 11:30 P.M.delivery normal, babyprepared for agency, motherreleased in two days, babyto foster care, thento adoptive parents. No memories, save one,a fall, bathroom, headbleeding, black and whitefloor tile, radiator harderthan child’s skull. Now 70, the same person,a lying mirror each day,a small cemetery, WestVirginia, a headstonea mother finally,a life of mourning.

    Lou Faber

  • MOVING DAY

    In my dream last nightI was moving a matress, queen sized,probably with box springs butit was wrapped, from my parents’ hometo my apartment, but not usinga vehicle, just pushing italong the streets, obeyingall the traffic signals, usingmy turn indicators, althoughdon’t ask why a mattress hadturn lights, just accept that it did.It was arduous work, and…

    Lou Faber

  • LEILA

    At the left click of the mousemy granddaughter appearsbarely a week oldand with a right-clickshe is frozen into the hard drive.I remember sitting outsidethe Buddha Hall of Todai-Ji Templein the mid-morning August sun thesmiling at a baby waiting in her strollerfor her mother to bowto the giant golden Buddha.I recall the soft touchof the young…

    Lou Faber

  • UNTIL

    I was the adoptee,was the whole for years, until. It is always the untilthat is your undoing, wasmine when sheremarried, then two births. I was one third then, neveragain truly whole and whenshe died I discoveredin her will I was onlyone twentieth, andthen never even that. I want to forget her,forget them, denythem, but all…

    Lou Faber

  • REAR VIEW MIND

    I spent too much time lookingbackward, looking into the past,looking into the mirrorto frame a dream historyof my desires and fears.He called one morning, lefta message, “Mother died,more details will follow.”A mother his by birth,mine by legal act.I should have felt stunnedanger, I said quietly to myselfhe’s cocky, has issues, and wentabout momentary mourning.That is…

    Lou Faber

  • SIX FEET UNDER

    I remember the afternoonwas cold and damp, with a persistentdrizzle that escapedthe clustered umbrellas,the sky a blanket slowly sheddingthe water that soaked itas it sat out on the clothesline. I suspect you would haveliked it this way, everyone in attendance,everyone shuffling their feet,wanting to look skyward,knowing they would see onlya dome of black umbrella domes.…

    Lou Faber

  • WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

    My history is like an ill-sewn quilt, odd piecesof parents stitched looselytogether, always ready to comeapart, fade or be thrown away. Perhaps my history ismore like a belovedold pair of jeans, holesappear and are patched,patches wear out and arereplaced, or the hole isjust left, as if it weresomehow a fashion statement. There is little normalwhen…

    Lou Faber

  • WHERE?

    It is hard,painfully hardto realizeyour guidedoesn’t knowwhere youneed to go. And the onewho could guideyou isn’tthere, doesn’tknow youat all, hadyou whenshe couldonly place youfor adoption. So you wanderguideless,self-guided,deeper intothe unknown.

    Lou Faber

  • EDGE OF THE ABYSS

    He sits on the edgepeering down, shakingin the breeze, knowingthe abyss below waitsfor a misstep, a slip. He stares up, waitingfor her return, hopingshe will soon arrivebringing the meal, neverenough always wanting more. He knows he willsomeday soon haveto leave, but for nowall he can do is spreadhis wings, flap them, until it will seem…

    Lou Faber

  • IN MY BAG

    I carry my pastin a monk’s bagthat rests on my shoulder. In it you will findmy history, or bitsof it, names I havebeen given, given up,memories of childhood,pictures of my parentswho I never knew,aged in my mind fromthe photos in yearbooks,all that I have of them.. I still have roomin my bag, perhapsmore room than…

    Lou Faber