Did I forget to mention she's also an anarchist?
My sister Karen is a poet. I tease her every autumn when I’m knee deep in Emily Dickinson with my eighth graders. There are many commonalities with the two prodigious women: Metaphysical, eccentric spinsters, bakers, nature lovers, witty, sharp, fiercely independent, yet doggedly connected to family. But there are differences, too. Karen’s making a name for herself in the Traverse City area as an up and coming poet, whereas ED’s posthumous fame was the Dickinson family’s meal ticket. So like Lavinia Norcross, Emily’s well intended, younger sister, I’m publishing a very private poem written by Karen Marie Comella.
Waiting for Jan Jan
I hear the front door of the building slam
like the closing of a tomb.
We know it is Janet coming home
and that is why we are here,
my boyfriend, Joe
Janet’s boyfriend, Dave,
and me.
She does not know we are here.
She has gone shopping
and is excited to make a nice dinner
with Dave.
They are newly engaged.
I hear her labored steps,
the crinkle of the grocery bags.
I relish, for her,
these last seconds of innocence
because she cannot.
Her world is about to tilt on its axis
just as mine did a few hours ago.
Or was it years, or minutes,
a lifetime…
I crack the door
and watch her climb the stairs.
She is such a beauty.
Brown-eyed, olive-skinned, voluptuous,
a true Sicilian, like the rest of my tribe.
I, alone, in cool, Nordic linearity
look at her with grey eyes.
So very grey today.
Her young face-
we are too young for this-
looks at me and lights,
sparkling like Christmas,
only five days away.
She is so happy to see me
in this unexpected moment.
“Hello Janet”.
The grief in my voice thickens the air.
Her steps quicken
“What is it, Karen?”
She is at the door.
I open it wide to receive her
and all that I know will come.
“Mom died, Jan”.
The bags fall from her arms.
I barely catch them
as she walks past me
into the living room
where Joe and Dave are waiting.
She sits on the couch alone
plants her elbows on her knees
and lays her face in her hands.
I sit down and drape my arms around her
useless as a prayer shawl against the Arctic.
The four of us weep
in unspeakable silence,
while the sun sets
on the eve
of Winter’s darkest night.
Karen Comella
10/11/06
Twenty years have passed since that day. It’s still a vivid memory. I sometimes share how I can take snapshots of the ordeal and tell how each precise moment impacted my life. However, the decisions and choices of the few days preceding my mom’s death and the day she died is truly a world class short story in the making. I can’t do it justice right now, but all the elements are there. It’s not polished, nor poetic, but I’m publishing it nonetheless.
It all started on Balfour–the Comella Christmas Party.
All other details of that day have blurred, but one.
In the presence of others to avoid a conflict, I told mom
I was staying in Ann Arbor for Christmas.
I was done with the trappings of Christmas morning.
I was grown up, on-my-own, had my own plans.
The next day, Dave, the grounding force in my life
convinced me otherwise.
I had to show respect to my parents
I had to meet the needs of my mom
I had to keep family a priority.
I had to call mom and let her know I’d changed my plans.
I’d be home for Christmas afterall.
A forshadowing call home that Tuesday.
Ann answered–the normal chit chat
It was late morning, but Mom’s still sleeping.
The hustle and bustle was wearing her out.
Don’t wake her up, but have her call me. It’s important.
That afternoon, I stopped into Logos.
My young fiance behind the counter
Last minute list checking
A trip to the mall and Kroger
The hustle and bustle brings me home cold, tired, and anxious.
Karen meets me at the door of Dave’s apartment.
Dave and Joe Coleman are behind her
queued up to bear the news,
Mom is dead.
Groceries abandonded to roommates
Clothes, clean and dirty thrown together
A call to Coco
Packing up the presents including mom’s-
a snow globe that plays
I’ll be home for Christmas.
