Indecision

A Story-Poem Inspired by Renoir

Issue #12

(Pierre-Auguste Renoir, The Umbrellas. 1883. 71 X 45 ¼. The National Gallery, London.)

Indecision

I must listen to my heart. I cannot
let my fears and doubts control me.
I must make a decision soon.
Sometimes I feel like the weather—
blowing hot and cold. Rainy one day
and sunny the next. I look
at the people around me and wish
I had their confidence—their
self-assurance, their commitment.
They brought their umbrellas along
today, knowing that it would rain. 
I left mine at home, choosing to get
wet and let the rain wash away
my sins and indiscretions. He is
married to another woman. I know
he will never belong to me. I only
have a part of him for a short time. 

Sure, he treats me like a queen. 
I have an apartment. All the clothes
and jewelry that I need. I don't have
to work. There is so much that I should
be thankful for. I should be on my knees,
praising God for what He has given me.
Many have it worse. They live 
from moment to moment, not knowing 
where their next meal will come from 
or if they will have a bed to sleep on. 
I should not forget where I come from.
If it wasn't for him, I might still be
there today. Pregnant, barefoot with
ten children and nothing to feed them.
My father sold me to him when I was
only thirteen. And I must admit that
he has been good to me. He has never
hit me like my father did. He has
never raised his voice or called me 
names. He has been so patient. Giving
me everything I ask for except my
freedom to love another. He keeps me
for himself. Makes love to me when
he wishes. I suppose I could betray
him, but I am afraid. Not of him so
much as of losing him. I can't say
that I love him. In many ways he did
rescue me from a fate worse than hell.

On certain days, though, I want more.
A family of my own. A little white
house with a picket fence. I don't like
to share him with his wife, his children.
I want him for myself. I walk the streets
today, wishing I had the strength
to leave him. To run away. But each
time I start, I turn back. Maybe
this is love. I don't know. I thought
it would be more than this. He can
be romantic and tender. He brings
me presents when he comes. But
I think he grows tired of me. That
he may have another woman. Someone
that he loves more than me. He spends
less time than he once did. When I ask
him about it, he says that his business
has grown so much that he needs to
spend more time managing it. But I
know in my heart that it is another
woman. I can see it in his eyes when
he looks at me. I've heard him call
her name when he is asleep. Dreaming,
I am sure, about her. He tells me that
his life has become more demanding.
And he must spend more time at home.

I do enjoy it when he makes love to me.
I was a virgin when my father brought
me to him. I still remember that day.
It was rainy like this one. The streets
were full of umbrellas. My father said
he had a surprise for me. My mother
had packed a bag of my clothes and
had given me a big hug. She promised
everything would be much better
where I was going. She said that
she would come and visit when she
could. It's been twelve years, and 
she has never come. I have not seen
my family since that day. In those
early years, I would lie awake at
night, crying for her. I don't blame
her. I know she and my father did
what they thought best. What future
did I have with them? I might have
died of some disease or affliction.
I might have been on the streets
as a prostitute like my older sister.

She came to visit once. Her face
was covered with makeup. She looked
so old. So worn out. She told me to
be thankful for what I had. She said
I should feel so lucky to have
someone taking care of me. I gave
her a pair of my earrings and 
a small amount of cash that I had
saved. But I never saw her again.
I heard months later that she had
been murdered by some rich men
for fun. I had always looked up
to her, almost worshiped her.
As children, I had followed her
everywhere. She was more of a mother
than the woman who gave me birth.
She comforted me when I cried. She
played with me until I laughed. 
I wanted to go to her funeral, but 
there was none. They dumped her
in a grave for the poor and less fortunate.
They didn't even make her a coffin.
They dug a big hole and tossed
in the bodies of the dead. They stripped
off their clothes and jewelry and shoved 
them on top of each other. I was horrified 
when I found out what had been done 
to her body. I begged my lover to retrieve 
her body and bury it properly. He said 
it was impossible because the city did 
not record who was buried in what grave. 
And there are thousands of graves.

On occasion, I have thought of killing myself,
but I am afraid that someone will simply
dump me in a hole like my sister. My days
are long and tedious when he is not here.
I have no friends, so I walk by myself through
the streets. Sometimes, I will stop in a cafe
and watch the people. I listen in on other
people's conversations. I imagine their lives,
and for a few moments, I become them.
I listen to the poets recite their torments
in verse. I listen to the philosophers reinventing
the world and arguing about how best to change
it. I have taken up writing stories and poetry.
I don't show it to anyone, not even him. I keep
my writing locked away in a desk drawer. I am
not very good, but it gives me something to do.
It helps to soothe the pain I feel. I wish I could
decide what to do. I search for answers in
the raindrops. I pray for a sign from God.
Everything becomes a sign, and I don't act.
I am safe and secure. I know where my next 
meal will come from. I thank God that my lover
came into my life when he did, or I would be
dead like my sister. I listen to my heart and act
upon what my mind tells me. I know I won't
leave him. I only dream of leaving. Thank God.

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Notes:

Pierre-Auguste Renoir is one of my favorite painters. I have written several poems about his paintings, including this one, which I wrote in 2003 while studying Renoir's art.

Here is a slightly different reading of the poem I recorded in 2013 and posted to SoundCloud.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem.

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