Troy's Community Newsletter

Turning Point

by Martha Marshall

August, not January, is the month when my years begin. Like Janus, the two-headed god, looking both back to the past and forward to the future, August always signals a turning point for me, a wistful, reflective, scary and challenging time. In August I feel both tired and restless, nostalgic for carefree summer days but ready for change, for the energizing crispness of fall and winter. I often feel like just sitting under a tree during August, but (despite the heat) I have energy, too, to travel someplace new, to take a chance, to try one last time, before winter comes.

And there are so many "Dates to Remember" in August, so many marks of passage: My grandmother was born in August. My first real boyfriend and several other friends were all born in August. My father was born in August. And it was August when he died.

It was August when I went off to college. It was August when I graduated and got my first job. It was August when I first came to New York. It was August when I had to go back to Missouri. It was August when I returned here to stay. It was August when I found the lump in my breast. It was August when I found my beautiful home downtown. Backward and forward. End and begin. The year turns, life turns, in August.

Maybe the year turns for me in August because in Missouri, school starts then, and I always loved school. I looked forward to seeing all my friends again and to learning something new. As I got older I lamented the end of summer, but school still offered a fresh start. A turning point.

One of my newest friends was also born in August. This birthday marks a turning point for him, too, because he will be old enough to start kindergarten. Like me, he often seems at odds with his mother, so for him and our strict, nefarious mothers and August and me, I have written a poem:

August Lessons

I'm five years old, and sobbing
Because you've spanked me
for the first time in my life.
I don't understand why.
What did I do that was so wrong?
But you set your face and
I can still feel the coldness of your stare.
I'm twelve years old and sobbing
Because the headgear hurts so much
I can't keep my face straight
but the orthodontist says
I have to wear it.
Twelve hours every night.
I don't understand why.
I'm sure I'll never sleep again.
But you set your face and you, too,
Said I had to wear it. And you stalked out
of the room, back into the kitchen
So I couldn't see you cry.
You were always in the kitchen,
Working to feed us and iron our clothes andù
I'm forty-three and crying,
For all you worked to teach me,
And all I have left to learn.

In cooperation with Troy United Ink Corp., a not-for-profit corporation
Items published herein do not necessarily represent the opinions of Troy United Ink Corp., its officers or it's Board of Directors.

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