These Days

I linger mostly somewhere
between what I want,
what I don’t want,
and not knowing what I want.

Confused by my tears,
I’m left exhausted
and internally withdrawn
from the pain I cannot
seem to grab hold of,
challenge and conquer.

I swallow the rising
storm, hoping
no one sees the panic
in my eyes, crying
“I am lost on this
path to nowhere,
somewhere,
anywhere.”

Incensed by my inability
to touch my reality,
make sense of it
and feel congruent,
I close my doors,
my blinds, my eyes,
only to take a peek,
when I feel it’s safe.

I shake myself as
I feel my limbs
going to sleep,
hating that tingling,
(perhaps numb is better),
knowing, however,
I cannot stand the
immobility of rest.

So these days
I giggle because the
insanity tickles;
I cry because the
losses hurt; and
I fight because the
living feels like dying.

Morning Delivery

(Taking Trey to school one morning. Written 2-2-09)

“You are the brightest
star in my sky.”
You grab your
backpack, glance
at me, almost smile
but roll your eyes instead.

“Be a leader today;
reach beyond your potential.”
You pretend you don’t
hear me, distracted by
something other than my voice,
but I notice as you sit up taller
and hold your head a little higher.

“You can do anything you want,
as long as you read and dream.”
You moan, “I know, Mom. You’ve told me
that a million times already.”
But you look out the window,
thinking, wondering, dreaming,
believing it is all possible,
and your eyes tell me what I need to know.

I savor every simple moment
God allows you and me,
knowing it will make the difference
between what you can be
and what you will be.

I cherish and delight in
every rolling eye,
ignored response
and grumbling
because I know you
hear me even though
it isn’t cool to let anyone
know you do.

I won’t quit, no matter
how big you get
nor how old I am,
because I know me,
believing in you,
is your first defense
against the voices
of this world
telling you what
you cannot do.