She was born Mary Scott-Tweedhead
On July Twelve, Nineteen Sixty Nine.
Boris Scott and Judy Tweedhead were proud,
Though this feeling would pass with time.
Mary's first failure was as a daughter;
She could see it in her parents' eyes.
Though her mother put on a grimly brave face,
Dad's chagrin was thinly disguised.
She was meant to be a doctor or lawyer
But chose the path of an artist instead,
Spending three years on acid in art school
Learning to sculpt her way out of her head.
Failure as a wife was next on the list,
Marrying Hugh Selwyn who was a deaf mute.
They communicated with hand signs and eyebrows;
He was a painter, still life, mainly fruit.
Being both artists they never had any money -
When children arrived, things became worse.
Arguments were silent though wildly expressive,
The most common sign being empty purse.
It wasn't only the purse that was empty, however,
As she and Hugh drifted apart,
Resulting in her third failure - as a mother:
No room for kids in a broken heart
When the split came she blamed herself, of course,
Gave custody of both children to Hugh.
Feeling the price paid for loving was too high,
She bought a shack in the hills painted blue
Where she sat and sculpted from dawn until dusk
Using hammer, chisel and local stone.
It wasn't quite clear what she was making,
Even to her; perhaps a monument to being alone.
The locals took interest in her burgeoning work,
Proud of having an artist in their midst.
But as the years passed without its completion,
The chances of it being finished were dismissed.
It was only when a neighbour, Lars Nordstrom,
Went to check whether Mary needed supplies,
That he found her slumped in a chair, tools in hand
All signs of life fled from her eyes.
Before her, on a workbench, lay a simple gravestone,
Shaped by hand from hewn granite
And in a careful, almost delicate script,
These words were carved upon it:
Mary
Scott-Tweedhead
Lies
here quite dead
She
meant well but let life assail her
Living
only so long
To
know she was wrong
This
was her very last failure.
Lars, an artist himself, was bemused,
Knowing how assiduously Mary had toiled.
To have only produced this underwhelming piece
Meant his opinion of her would be spoiled.
It was only after gathering Mary's belongings
That Lars entered the shed in the yard.
To his astonishment he found it packed to the rafters
With gravestones all beautifully carved,
Each one an apologia, warning, hymn, requiem,
Desperate search for some acolyte to anoint.
In the end she wouldn't bend to the truth of millennia:
A blunt chisel always misses the point.
© shaun patrick green 2013
