{"id":2177,"date":"2022-11-29T18:55:50","date_gmt":"2022-11-29T18:55:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ebling.library.wisc.edu\/corpus-callosum\/?p=2177"},"modified":"2024-09-04T21:10:48","modified_gmt":"2024-09-04T21:10:48","slug":"letters-of-absolution","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ebling.library.wisc.edu\/corpus-callosum\/letters-of-absolution\/","title":{"rendered":"Letters of Absolution"},"content":{"rendered":"

Ryan McAdams, MD<\/em>
\nSchool of Medicine and Public Health, Department of Pediatrics<\/em>
\n2022<\/em>
\nPoem<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I
\n<\/strong>Northern Wisconsin in the 1970s.<\/em><\/p>\n

My childhood wardrobe should have been
\npunishment enough\u2014turtlenecks
\nand plaid pants; a frenzy of earth brown,
\nburnt orange, avocado green, and baby
\nblue stripes. The cool weather threads
\nhelped hide the bruises.<\/p>\n

But letters told stories<\/p>\n

U was for wooden spoon
\nN was for leather belt
\nI was for ruler
\nW was for bare hand
\nC was for soup can<\/p>\n

Yellow ochre summer days were spent
\nat the country club pool. Our awkward,
\nhead down walk past the lounge chair ladies
\nwho sipped drinks as they dripped
\nin tanning lotion and glimmered
\nin gold jewelry. Maybe I missed a glance
\nbehind their oversized sunglasses
\nor failed to hear their chitchat\u2014
\nBut somehow, they passed over the paragraph
\nof purple on my little sister\u2019s legs,
\ntoo gripped by other marked gossip.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0II
\n<\/strong>Items in reach.<\/em><\/p>\n

Her clenched jaw was a warning
\nto run and hide in the bathroom before
\ndrawers opened and utensils clanged.
\nShe had a great backhand
\non and off the court.<\/p>\n

When his leather belt whipped off
\nwe scrambled barefoot up the stairs
\npleading and cowering in the corner\u2014
\nthe spate of snaps and whacks
\nended with a solitary door slam.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0III
\n<\/strong>Bar soap.<\/em><\/p>\n

Pinned and straddled, the forceful jaw shove,
\nthe chew and choke, the bitter gag
\nas my head thrashed. Defeated, I spit
\nwhite clumps of Dial into the bathroom sink,
\ntrembling as I plucked caked tallowate,
\nstuck to my sprouting teeth.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0IV
\n<\/strong>Fall colors.<\/em><\/p>\n

Shouts carved the crisp autumn air
\nas the ball bounced off the rim\u2014
\na shuffle to shut the front windows,
\nthen rapid dribbling to muffle the screams.<\/p>\n

Turmoil at the kitchen table
\ngot me banished to the basement
\nfor dinners in the dark, alone
\ncrouching by the bottom step,
\ncrying as I tried to swallow
\nthe canned sliced beets, terrified
\na demon would seize me before
\nI learned my lesson.<\/p>\n

Cold days and sun rays, changed pigments of pain;
\nred revealed purple, which yielded yellow-
\ngreen that paled to brown and faded away,
\nbut bruises of the heart often stayed.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0V
\n<\/strong>In the rough.<\/em><\/p>\n

My dad was not playing the day
\nwe walked along the concealed back fairway
\nbetween walls of looming oaks and dark pines.
\nWhen he stopped and turned to us, tears filled
\nhis eyes and he trembled. \u201cYou know
\nI love you.\u201d Then his voice wavered
\nas he told us of the betrayals.
\nMy sister started to shake and sob
\nas he hugged her. She looked at me,
\nwounded, wide eyed, and worried.<\/p>\n

On the car ride home, we drove past
\na dead deer lying on the road.\u00a0 Its curved
\nneck and cloudy eyes peered toward me.
\nWere you hit as you entered or left
\n<\/em>the road?<\/em> My mind raced and fumbled
\nthrough tangled memories, frayed threads
\nthat linked possible trysts. My gut
\nknotted as I recalled the attentive
\nnext-door neighbor who smiled too much
\nand how she dug her nails in my arm
\nwhen I laughed too loud at his house.<\/p>\n

The divorce separated us kids.<\/p>\n

My sister to my dad\u2019s. My brother
\nwith me and my mom. Broken and
\napart, I learned bitter words stung
\nmore than a belt or wooden spoon.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0VI
\n<\/strong>Winter break.<\/em><\/p>\n

The giant city truck dropped its plow blade,
\ngrating the asphalt, driving a wave of snow
\nand gravel against the curb, leaving a wall
\nof jagged boulders and fractured ice sheets.<\/p>\n

That bleak night I watched the truck drive
\naway, leaving the sleek black street barren,
\nas the engine rumble and warning beeps
\nwaned. A fierce wind threw dust off the drifts
\nstinging my cheeks as my numb fingers
\ngrasped the shovel handle. I stared up at
\nmy sister\u2019s dark bedroom window, then up
\nat the half moon. Half-truths, half-stories, halves
\nneeding to be whole. I peered down the long,
\nuneven sidewalk and pushed a new path.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0VII
\n<\/strong>Flowers still bloomed.<\/em><\/p>\n

April winds and rain wore away the last
\nstubborn snowbanks, shedding the shame
\nof winter to the curbside. Sunbreaks
\nbaked sludge into salt, sand, and soot,
\nwhich I swept down the rusted iron storm
\ndrain on the lonely street corner.<\/p>\n

Balmy Sundays brought marigold orange memories<\/p>\n

My febrile head rests on my mother\u2019s lap.
\nShe caresses my forehead, running her fingers
\nthrough my thick hair as I fall asleep
\non the living room couch in my flannel pajamas.<\/p>\n

My father sits on the linoleum kitchen floor.
\nHe puts multicolored letter magnets
\non the white refrigerator, smiling
\nas I repeat after him. Now I know my ABCs.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0VIII
\n<\/strong>Grateful reflections.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em>They are both dead now.
\nVictims of cancer and medical mishap.<\/p>\n

Some days I cry. A lost toddler again,
\nstanding alone in a long empty
\nsupermarket aisle, wondering
\nwhere and why they went.<\/p>\n

How many of us remain broken like
\nriver rocks, furrowed and stuck, bound
\nand shrouded in stagnant waters?
\nTear bursts and time moved me forward,
\nthe rapid shifts and turns, the shearing flow\u2014
\nscraped,\u00a0rubbed, and refined, a slow grind
\nto reshape rough edges until by grace
\nI settled onto a secure shore.<\/p>\n

Downstream, I paused, scanning the pebbled bed
\nwhen a gleam of dappled green on gray
\nflickered beneath my rippled reflection.
\nI reached deep and grasped the smooth stone,
\na cool dense weight in my palm that warmed
\nwhen\u00a0held tight, a keepsake I clung to
\nas I stumbled along the humble path
\nof parenthood trying to avoid the letters
\nthat colored my childhood.<\/p>\n

Gazing back, I cherish beams of sunlight
\nresting on orange and red marigolds
\nblooming bright on the distant dark runoff
\nwhere I kneeled and released my river stone.<\/p>\n

Now the windows are open\u2014
\nsounds of my children laughing fill the air
\nas I place four letters on the fridge
\n                                                                    LOVE<\/p>\n

\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ryan McAdams, MD School of Medicine and Public Health, Department of Pediatrics 2022 Poem   \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I Northern Wisconsin in the 1970s. My childhood wardrobe should have been punishment enough\u2014turtlenecks and plaid pants; a frenzy of earth brown, burnt orange, avocado green, and baby blue stripes. The cool weather threads helped hide the bruises. But letters… <\/p>\n

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