I can still & 35 years
Two Imaginings by Valerie Jackman
Over coming weeks we will be publishing companion pieces to the two Unpsychology Imaginings editions of the magazine, published in 2023. This first one consists of two evocative reflections by Valerie Jackman about her parents.
Valerie’s beautiful reflection, I can still, appears in Unpsychology 9.1, and was written on the death of her father. The second offers a piece of familial symmetry – a poem, 35 years – that takes Valerie back to her mother’s young adulthood and the imagined conversation between them. You can find them, and many other Imaginings, in the free downloadable PDF versions of the magazines. Click the button below to access your copies.
I can still
Listen to Valerie reading ‘I can still’ here:
Commentary from Unpsychology sound editor, :
On reading Valerie's piece about her vivid and visceral memories of her father, I was moved to tears as I thought about my own Dad and how my senses of him have lingered long after he has gone — I sit here wearing his 'holiday shirt' as I write. Valerie had mentioned that she liked to recite her poetry and cohabiting, as I do, with audio joy, this seemed like an ideal opportunity to sound aloud that particular brand of wonder.
The first take was a special take. Not first for Valerie — she had done this before — but first for me. The simplicity of the delivery and the accessibility of the natural emotion was all I had hoped for and, as I slipped the audio file into Wavelab Elements v.11, the EQ function fell easily under my fingertips. A simple, sweeping high-pass filter towards the end of the piece enabled a lightness, an etherial dissipation and perhaps even the suggestion of passing onto the other realm: we all have connections there and sound could be the mystic portal.
The third delivery is the one though and with a little cut. and paste, the mystic revelation remains.
I CAN STILL DRIVE DOWN THE ROAD to my father ’s home, park in front of his house, and like choosing an outfit, I can call up the person I need to be in this place, with this man.
I can still walk up the path and see the moss amongst the paving, put my left hand on the handrail and lug my case up the steps. I can slide back the heavy porch door and be greeted by the signature musty smell.
I can still turn my key in the front door, the lock has been there for a long time but never softened in its sound. I can open the door and be hit by the deeper smell... dust, dog, fried food, man, fish, old, all combined with the ever so subtle scent of musk.
As I open the door to the living room, my eyes don’t need to search, for I know where I will find my father. In his chair, hands draped over the armrests, feet rhythmically tapping on the ground, heel, toe, heel, toe, “to keep the circulation going.”
Without moving his head, he glances in my direction. I can sense the delight in his heart, but it’s not on his face, for he doesn’t like to reveal his feelings. I can still hear him make his own unique noise that welcomes me, questions me, tells me he is glad to see me, but also tells me he is weary with life. “Augh” he says, as he tilts his head.
I can still sit with him, chat with him, and update him on the lives of his grandchildren. He listens with interest and pride, but he tells me he fears for them in a world that has gone mad. His wish is that they live decent lives.
When the conversation takes a rest, he starts to hum gently to the rhythm of his own foot tapping. As he relaxes, he starts to sing. He loves to sing; he even sings in his sleep. He has the most wonderful rich voice, and when he sings it resonates deep in my heart.
I can still fine tune my wavelength to the point where we are connected, and we both know we are.
I can still see his hands, I love his hands, I’ve always loved his hands. As a child, the only way he could let me know he loved me was to hold my hand.
I can still say goodbye. I can kiss him on the cheek and feel the kiss seep into his whole body. Again, he makes the noise, “Auch.” It has another meaning this time, it tells me he is sad to see me leave, it bids me farewell. It is also tinged with resignation.
I can still leave with a heavy heart, wondering when I will see him again. I can still see him standing at the door, tipping his head as I drive away, no doubt wondering if he will see me again.
I can still do all of this.
But I can’t.
For he is long gone, it’s all long gone.
But I can.
For it is deep, deep within me. Rooted in my body, mind, and soul.
35 years
Listen to Valerie reading ‘35 years’ here:
Commentary from Valerie Jackman (from an email to editor, Steve)
Both pieces are part of me processing grief. When my dad died four years ago I was soaked in grief. I didn't wish it away, I just sat with it, and from time to time strong memories came to mind. One day I sat down and recorded what came out, and this shaped the piece about my Dad. Having that published felt like a great tribute to him.
Once I had submitted the first piece I began to think of my mother, who had died 35 years previously. What surfaced when I remembered my mum was the pain and confusion of a 21 year old woman. Surfacing those feelings helped me move past them, and become closer to the real feelings I had for my mother. Whether this piece is published or not, I am so grateful to you and your team for nudging the process and helping me restore a loving relationship with my mum.
What if, after 35 years, we were to meet again.
I imagine walking through the woods. I look up and see someone in the distance, and as they get closer, I realise, it’s you, with your red scarf. You haven’t changed, but I have. I am now the older woman.
Imagine if after 35 years, we were to meet again, what would I do with the remnants of feelings that stayed with me, unbeknown to me.
What would I do with the fear that I felt, when I knew you were going, and I knew there was nothing I could do to do prevent it?
What would I do with the pain?
What would I do with the blame?
What would I do with the sorrow?
What would I do with the shame that I felt for being a poor reflection of your beauty and perfection?
What would I do with the embarrassment for that being me?
What would I do with the resentment, for the things you didn’t tell me, didn’t show me, didn’t teach me?
What would I do with my need for you to survive, when you never stood a chance?
What would I do with the anger?
What would I do with the jealousy?
What would I do with the guilt, for not making you the centre of my world when our world was falling apart?
Imagine if after 35 years we were to meet again, and those feelings had faded away, what deeper feelings would remain?
The joy I felt, knowing I was yours,
The pride knowing you were mine.
The comfort I felt sitting under your oxter.
The happiness when I saw you smile.
35 years, you were 51 and I was 21, and we were both too young.
Imagine if after 35 years we were to meet again, maybe there’s nothing I’d need to do. Because at the end of the day, only one thing mattered, you loved me, and I loved you.
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Such beautiful pieces! Both on their different ways of addressing this longing for a presence that are still with us, in a way or another. I didn’t know your mum died at the same age as mine when I was the same age as you were. I felt both pieces talking to my fibre and the way life and death resonates with me. Thank you Valery