Green Fruit; Rotten.

I’ve decided to take advantage of my melancholic mood to write a wee article about a poem I wrote last year. Often melancholy hits in the most unexpected ways but, for me, it is silence that triggers it.

I have recently enjoyed escapism and meeting people after my third miscarriage a couple of months ago. However, there is always a moment when you close your front door and it is just you, your thoughts and your dear friend grief. This, perhaps, is coupled with the support and messages dwindling after the miscarriage, a safe passage of time that might indicate you are over it already. Silence hits me like a million bricks. Sometimes, I wish my home was haunted, and maybe it is…I also wish there wasn’t any silence in my house. I grew up in a family of eight siblings in a four bedroom flat on a tenth floor. There was always noise in my life, things going on, screams and shouts, laughter, music, fights, you name it. The silence I experience now is a reminder of the noise that was then. Of course, it wasn’t always easy growing up, but now I feel like I’ve had my fair share of silence and I want to hear screams, shouts and children playing around. Sadly this is not to be, as infertility says not yet.

A lot of the infertility journey is waiting. Waiting to conceive, the 2 week wait! waiting for tests, waiting for tests results, waiting for treatment, waiting to get referred, waiting to start IVF treatment, waiting to see if a pregnancy is viable, waiting to miscarry at home, waiting for scans, waiting for first period after miscarriage, and more waits. I’ve done so much waiting these past two years that I ended up likening my infertility to waiting for a train on a Sunday morning in Britain.

I had an experience last year where I had to wait for hours to get a train after feeling an overwhelming need to escape. I was bursting with feeling and left on a Sunday at 6.00 am but the next train wasn’t until 10.00 am, so I waited. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, but at least it wasn’t raining. This experience later clicked in my brain as the actual representation of what was happening to me. I was always waiting.

Later on, I wrote a poem about infertility when I was in the car on the way back home from a job interview that was five hours drive away (I wasn’t driving :-)) I named the poem after a book by my Spanish teacher called “Green Fruit”, it was a coming of age novel where two insultingly young teens have sex and fall pregnant. I really admired this teacher and I wish she could read what I write now, because I always cared about her opinion, she is inspiring, passionate and enduring. So I dedicate this poem to her.

Green fruit

Like a green fruit; rotten.
I see another train passing
Lying down on the platform
I see another train passing
I lie and I try to sleep
On the benches crying
I stand on concrete bollards
And I see trains coming
But I never get on the train
Been here for days, months
And years
I chat with strangers whose stop is near
They get on the train
But I linger
Sometimes we are all getting on
But they disappear
Either the train or the faces
Like on a Sunday morning
that Friday feeling fading
Like a green fruit rotten
That’s still green and hoping.

2 thoughts on “Green Fruit; Rotten.

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