Brandi White
I silently ask god why
-in memory of Ethan MikeL Matthews
​
Looking her in the eyes for the first time, it had only been a week since
the last that I had. Her striking blue eyes were the same she’d given to him,
only twenty-five trips around the sun had passed since then.
Her embrace was long and sad. I held onto her shattered shell.
She shook as the tears fell, and then mine fell too. Words that could not surface
were exchanged from one soul to another. I silently ask God why.
The lump in my throat as I heard her call his name all day in a deep moan,
left me sick inside and mournful with thoughts of why it had to be him.
I silently ask God why.
I looked at his girlfriend, who looked like a ghost, lost in the crowd
and hauntingly pale. Her belly was full of his life, but hers snuffed out. A son
to be born this fall, a new little one without. I silently ask God why.
The service was grand; in the school gymnasium, that quarterback did shine.
His medals and trophies were gathered around, but his most proud pieces were
the hunting ones he received after those glory days were long gone.
All his boys wore camouflage that day in his honor, even his dad and brother.
I look at his mother, who sits and stares like a zombie, motionless and tired as tears
fall like small rivers down her face. I silently ask God why.
I’ve held her hand all summer long, she will not wake up from the nightmare.
Hell, I don’t blame her. Death took him from her, but grief has taken her from me.
I silently ask God why.
A mother mourns her son, I mourn a best friend, one gone and one here.
It is as if the world lost both, like some two-for-one special soul-selling sidewalk sale.
I silently ask God why.
What's Heavy
That bucket of grain. That iron gate that hangs
off its hinges,slightly bent.
And the cinder block that is used
as its doorstop. The hundred-gallon water stock
tank that sits on the platform
rusted out galvanized steel
for its sides — yellow
rimmed tractor tire leaning
against the barn door
with its matched one on the shop floor.
The sticky hot day, clung close
in the threads of worn old work shirts
That dirt pile pushed high from a
skid loader job in the corner feedlot.
That stack of gold
hay filled to the top
like little toy blocks
on the playroom floor.
That pile of bills
with the wolves at the door
always hungry for more.
That dish of Shepherd's
pie deep down
in the bellies
of the men in my heart.
My heart when the first snap
of winter takes that first calf
from the herd.
My emotions when both sons
set out down the road in green machines,
in different places and every farm in between.
That first sip of wine
to toast the day gone,
or a harvest finally done.
That first sign of spring
and the semi-truck of seed
pulls in.
My body
as I climb out
of bed before
the sun to do it again.
Staying With Grandmother
I always found it odd that you wore toilet paper in your hair
pinned up at night before bed. I always wondered why your
bed sheets smelled like freshly pressed cotton, why the vanity
table had so many glass bottles of funny-smelling things in
twisted caps with unreadable letters on the sides. Why the tub
was filled with bubbles all clear to the top, they tickled my nose
and would not stop. I still love to smell the rose milk bath foam.
I always wondered why the refrigerator seemed to know
exactly what I liked, from the pudding pops to Jell-O cups.
They were always a surprise. The pantry is stocked with all the
other favorites, too, from Pringles to Corn Pops and cookies of all kinds and
especially Chocolate Chip. Why was it a special occasion to have cinnamon
and fresh biscuit dough ready on a Friday night, and grandpa would set out
that old cot in the living room that was the perfect size for just me?
I always wondered why the basement smelled like damp linens
and had concrete floors. Why did it hold all the canned vegetables
for the winter in store? Why were there always so many kinds of
candy bars on those shelves in the basement next to those canned
vegetables too? There were every kind, from Reese’s to Milky Way,
Crunch to Mr. Goodbar, and a few Cherry Mash. But then, I had several
friends in the neighborhood too.
I always wondered why the garden gate would stick and make a creaking
sound, but the storage shed held all the tools for repair. I always wondered
why the garden looked better than the one next door. Why did I get chased out
of that old apple tree next door with that man and a yardstick yelling words
I cannot say. All I wanted to do was stay and play. Why we would sit for hours just
talking at the table, so you could politely smile at my face, the one like your mother’s
face, you would say. Yours had such grace and genuine. I always wondered if it ever was in distaste.
Bio
Brandi White is a spring 2023 UCM graduate in Professional Writing with an emphasis on creative and technical writing. She works as the Creative Non-Fiction and Art editor for Arcade Magazine. She won the 2023 Baker-Starzinger poetry award with the poem “What’s Heavy.” She also won the College of Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences 2023 Outstanding Non-Traditional Student Award. Brandi has been married for twenty-seven years to her high school sweetheart, and they have two grown sons, a daughter-in-law, a step-grandson, and a soon-to-be granddaughter in July of 2023. She lives just outside of Warrensburg, Missouri, with her husband, and they own a family farm.