Thirty-seven

I lost my husband and my brother in 2013.  An unlucky number.  An unlucky year.  They were both 37.  One took his own life.  The other tried so hard to get to stay.  One left three children fatherless.  The other left a legacy.  My children lost the two most influential male figures in their lives within 8 months of each other, seemingly in one fell swoop.  And even still, as their mother, I am reeling from it.

It is hard not to be angry.  At Life.  At the Universe.  At the one who made the choice to go, at the cancer who took the one who wanted to stay.  It is hard to understand any of it.  I won’t pretend that I do.  And I don’t believe that anybody really does.  And anbody that says that they do is probably selling something.  But that is okay.  I am okay with not understanding.  I really am okay not having the answers.  I am okay with feeling it and going with it and learning from it and leaning into it, at trying to find the peace in the pause, and going with that.  Because, really, what more can I do?

But what I do know is that you live, and you love, and you play and you laugh and you cry. You breathe and you soak it all in.  And you take risks and you love and you marvel at it all.  And you feel and you live and you love and you laugh and you cry some more.  Because you must.  That is how you carry on.  That is your purpose.  To live while you can.

Is there meaning in it?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that they were both 37.  And they are both gone, but never forgotten…

Morning Song

The pink sky of sunrise

beckons me into the morning,

Yes, you can.

Welcoming dew on the grass

wets my feet and reminds me,

Yes, you can.

Morning-scented air touched with

the faint chill of passing night enlivens me,

Yes, you can.

Bird-songs of hope and joy

fill the air and coax me,

Yes, you can.

Lush green life pulsating with

quiet energy surrounds me,

Yes, you can.

Another day.  Another chance.  Moment

upon moment waiting to be made.

Yes, you can.

And you must.

Chloe at Seven

I'm posting this for my friend who wants me to write about more cheerful things.  I wrote this for Chloe when she was three.  And even though she is fifteen now, it brings me back in an instant.

Chloe at Seven

Lumpy bear dangling;

tousled hair.

Soft round feet pad gently and

carry her uncertainly, drunken

with a full night’s rest until

she is at my bedside.

Sleepy eyes blinking;

china-doll cheeks.

I turn my head to see the clock, but

it will show what I already know—

seven.

Dimpled hands reaching;

a whispered hello.

Gathering her in

a sweet embrace

I breathe in her scent and sigh—

a beautiful day

already.

Everybody

Everybody needs a hero

The lost, the fallen, the lonely,

The one who has been left behind…

Although I can take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The grieving, the hungry, the deserted,

The one with the broken heart…

You know I can take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The frightened, the sad, the angry

The one who has lost all hope…

But I must take care of myself.

Everybody needs a hero

The fatherless, the motherless, the stranger,

The one who is trying to figure things out…

And I can take care of myself.

You may not think I need a hero

Because I can take care of myself…

But everybody needs a hero,

Sometimes…