Another Poem About the Truth

The truth is
people born with 47 chromosomes have been locked away
left alone and died alone
in voids of confusion and loneliness
throughout history and throughout the world

The truth is
Some still do

47 chromosomes
do not preclude a human from learning
from feeling
from reaching for more

Science can see this trisomy
before a mother
feels her child developing
Science cannot see possibility
Science cannot tell the future
Neither can you
Neither can I

The truth is I need help
to facilitate my son’s reach
toward his potential
The truth is he has dreams for his future
do you have dreams, too?

April is…

Your Heart

in that antiseptic room

your tiny chest opened

 

once considered a miracle

living

recovery

 

now science

medical

possible

 

in my wallet

a diagram

a heart

with arrows

circles

concerns

 

I run

with you

running you

through life

 

For enough life

whatever we get

should be enough

 

Is that possible?

probably not

we take

create

pack in

every minute

 

all we get is

a few precious minutes

here and there

 

you

make minutes matter

you

bring joy

you

create hope

you

teach purpose

you

 

your heart

beautiful beating heart

 

I keep watching

keep watching you

and your heart…

 

***

So, in April I tend to go to the hard moments that came from the April’s before, including handing my sweet baby over to heart surgery all those years ago. We had a long reprieve from

Touching Heaven

Even under two blankets, Jimmy lay in bed shivering. “It had to be the coldest night of the year?” he complained.

“For the perfect mountain wedding, I guess so,” Amy cooed her reply. “What did you expect up here?”

“Heat. I expected heat.” He rubbed his hands above his chest and faced the ceiling as he ranted. “I also didn’t expect to have a fully dressed bride on my wedding night.” Under the covers he reached and pinched.

She squealed a pleased reply “I don’t care how grumpy you are.” She curled herself under his arm and over his chest, “I’m happy.

Through the Dreamers We Hear the Hum

99 words –

“Come on, let’s go…”

Boots once muddied from play now covered in sand. Nights full of treacherous poison and days under the beating sun. The child sleeps without rest, walks along, follows. She yearns for the bed behind them. It was shared, but home. The promise ahead is…cold.

She trudges in boots broken through to her tiny calloused feet and hides as a car passes. “Through the dreamers we hear the hum,” plays from the radio, the air-conditioner blares, to the next gas stop or rest stop.

Not for her though, the