The Great 1969 Storm Poem by Terry Dunham

The Great 1969 Storm

Looking out my frost sculptured window and into the world of beauty, I see fast moving spectacles of winter.

I turn my radio off, excited at the thought of being peacefully comforted in the solitude of my own house.

I wake my brother (who really is asleep) and tell him the glorious news which has been decreed by The Man.

I joyfully walk downstairs and hit my funny little Mother on the arm, jokingly. “Have a good day”, I say.

Off she trudges after drinking her black coffee and eating her puny breakfast of toast and grape-apple jelly.

I watch her as she fights her way out to the car and gets inside, and I see in her face that she loves me.

Only as a mother could love does she love; with her heart and her soft Mothering kiss on my cheek.

Years ago she was happy with a radiance that spread from her smile to the very people who beheld her.

She was beautiful, and later the Great Tragedy of her unhappy life appeared in the form of an unloving man.

Her life changed after the nights Dad, the Almighty, would come home drunk and smelling of liquor.

Don’t believe for a minute that I ever loved him because I really didn’t know him well enough to love.

One might compare him with a tree top; it is easily seen, as he is easily seen, but it is not easily touched.

I knew him not! He didn’t know me!

My Mother is a secretary and works, as she has for long years, to keep my brother and me alive and clothed and happy.

She sometimes forgets of the happiness in life, and goes into a sad dream world in which is nothing but dark.

I do not know what is thought in the privacy of her mind but I fear that she is afraid of lonely old age.

But I must not worry too much; I must glorify God for bringing life and beauty to this small portion of time and space.

And I must eat! It is past eight o’clock and I must work beside my brother today doing woman’s work!

I am a thoughtful day-dreaming person.

I have as my primary deed for the day to watch the haphazard blowing of soft and crisp flakes of dazzling snow.

As I fix my cream of mushroom soup (I am not in favor of having breakfast for breakfast) I think of what today is.

A storm! Along with prodigious snow banks along the neighbor’s fence there are piles of snow where cars are.

My soup is ready and I eat on a tray in our smallish living room, calmly watching the weather reports.

My brother wakes and trudges sleepily down the creaking, groaning wooden stairs; walks into the living room and swears at me.

I say, “Same to you. Put some clothes on, will you? What if the Avon lady should come? ” He stumbles into our ancient bathroom.

Soon he is drying his long hair and speaking in my direction; that I should fry him some breakfast. He wants eggs.

I say to him, “Please? ' He hollers back in a booming voice that makes the storm seem calm. “Dammit, I’ll fry them myself.”

I am now faced with the never ending challenge of living in closed quarters with a live and very unfriendly gorilla.

(c) 1969 Terry Dunham