My hair has fallen out a couple times,
like it isn't already thin enough already.
My teeth are bad, they're sensitive
and I've even chipped one.
Haven't fasted for weeks
nor thrown up for days.
I have a feeling, though
that I'm not done yet.
I want to be,
it's just that I'm not.
If I could stop eating at night..
not purging, maybe I could.
Or..
just be skinny.
I don't know,
I just want to be thinner.
98 pounds
isn't good enough.
It will never
be good enough.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
I've received a message from my father -
"Hi Sweetie,
I'm coming to town soon and I want to see you! I want you to come out and meet my girlfriend. She's lots of fun and you will like her. She really wants to meet you.
I'm bringing you a brand-new bed for the house (the one we lived in before him and my mother split, he still owns it). It's really comfy. I want you to come stay with us lots because I'll be away at work. It will be my girlfriend there alone, and I'm sure that she'll love the company seeing that she doesn't know anyone around here. She'd like to get to know you. Here is my number: __________ . You can call if you want. I really do miss you.
I plan on getting my Class 1 driver's license, so I can make two-thousand dollars a day driving a truck up north! When I start making good money, I'll buy you a car.
Bye, Honey."
The same old tricks that he's used on me for years... bribe, bribe, bribe! New bed, new car, new girlfriend. He always has a new girlfriend. I don't need to keep meeting new people and I sure as hell don't want to go back to the house where - yeah - he left me with no food, electricity or water. Too many bad memories of that time. I don't even think he knows that I'm in foster care.
As for the Class 1 driver's license, it isn't going to last. My father has never been able to hold a job. Don't be fooled - not as "nice" as he comes off to be.
"Hi Sweetie,
I'm coming to town soon and I want to see you! I want you to come out and meet my girlfriend. She's lots of fun and you will like her. She really wants to meet you.
I'm bringing you a brand-new bed for the house (the one we lived in before him and my mother split, he still owns it). It's really comfy. I want you to come stay with us lots because I'll be away at work. It will be my girlfriend there alone, and I'm sure that she'll love the company seeing that she doesn't know anyone around here. She'd like to get to know you. Here is my number: __________ . You can call if you want. I really do miss you.
I plan on getting my Class 1 driver's license, so I can make two-thousand dollars a day driving a truck up north! When I start making good money, I'll buy you a car.
Bye, Honey."
The same old tricks that he's used on me for years... bribe, bribe, bribe! New bed, new car, new girlfriend. He always has a new girlfriend. I don't need to keep meeting new people and I sure as hell don't want to go back to the house where - yeah - he left me with no food, electricity or water. Too many bad memories of that time. I don't even think he knows that I'm in foster care.
As for the Class 1 driver's license, it isn't going to last. My father has never been able to hold a job. Don't be fooled - not as "nice" as he comes off to be.
Friday, February 4, 2011
I was born in late summer to my 19-year-old parents and my the hometown that I still and have always come back to. I was the first-born on both sides of my family and the only girl as well. Everyone had always said that I was a beautiful baby when I had been born, a tiny thing with bright blue eyes and a full head of blonde hair. Maybe, though, they'd only been excited, for I was the first of many children.
I was named after my great-grandmother (Nona), who'd been the only relative of mine that had the same color as I. Being of Italian paternal descent, everyone in my family had been very dark with her as the only known exception. Even my maternal side, a family from Scotland and Ukrania, all had dark hair and eyes.
My little brother was born only a year-and-a-half following, in the same room with a near identical heartbeat as I. He also had a full head of hair, but he had dark hair and eyes and was larger than I was. He was expected to be another girl, and after much argumentation between my parents of what to call this child, he was named after our father days later.
The three of us lived in a three-bedroom, one bathroom house in what was primarily a senior neighbourhood. I have heard many stories of how life for us had been then and there, all different but both didn't seem well. I have somewhat managed to put some pieces together, but I know that because of my parents' inability to admit their mistakes, that I will never really know the full truth. I can only write about what I know.
My father had begun business owning a gym around the time I was born to support us all, but a few years later he was caught and arrested for substance abuse and dealing, therefore having to sell it. My paternal grandmother, who seems to try to never lose faith in her son (though it's clearly traumatizing for her), had always paid his bail to life the burden on him, my brother and I, and our mother. She still does so to this day, when he has been weaving in-and-out of prison for at least the sixteen years that I have been alive. Maybe even more so that I am not aware of, and he is now forty-years-old.
At this time, my mother was inevitably using as well, even before her children were born. I don't know the intensity of her addiction, though she did manage to withdraw herself when the custody battle over my brother and I took place. It was a year ago that I was told of this while I'd still believed my mother would never touch a drug, not even a cigarette. My father, in a fight between him and I, told me many stories of her neglection towards my brother and I (through his eyes, exaggerated, though it is true). My baby brother would often be left in his crib untouched while my father would work at his gym, and I, not fed all day.
I believe this is true, for until then I could not wrap my head around as to why my grandmother would call social services on my mother for, in her words, was "no reason". Nor could I understand, though I was a small child to begin with, why I had only been 17 pounds at nearly two-years-old with hair that fell out and never grew. Again, my mother pushed it aside, telling me that this was because "my eyes were bad", therefore having "no appetite because food didn't look appetizing". Of course, I, being oblivious as always, believed. When confronted about it, however, she admitted to it all. I don't have any memories of it.
While my brother was still only a baby, my parents split up. After living in my maternal grandparents' basement for some time, my mother found a new partner and we moved into his house shortly following. I was five-years-old at the time, my brother three-years-old.
We did not see our father much over the duration of the seven years my mother and her then-fiancee were together. We had a wonderful childhood there, a big house, big family (he had two kids, a girl and a boy, both older than my brother and I) and anything we could ever want. My father came around once every two years if we were to be lucky, doling out toys and games, and keeping us for one night at his mother's house. He was not allowed to be unsupervised with us, nor bringing us out of the house unsupervised; and he was not allowed leaving town with us under any circumstances.
The most vivid memories of him as a child are of him and my mother's then-fiancee fighting and swearing at the door, the same night he'd taken us, and his much younger girlfriend stabbed him in the arm while he was driving. The incident had been in the paper, and a child I was friendly with at school clipped it and brought it to me. I was in second grade.
From then on I had not seen him for years, yet my mother's then-fiancee loved to talk to his children (in front of my brother and I) of my father's latest arrests, one of which was smuggling drugs across the border, and saying that they "should be lucky that they don't have a father like that". I must've been used to his behaviour, for as a child I was never bothered by it in the slightest. A part of me had always been offended the moment I would hear, "Hey, guys, guess what their dad did..." in a light tone, but I never showed it for the sole reason that I never felt like he was my father. Like I said, I was not bothered by it at all.
When I was twelve-years-old, my mother and her then-fiancee split up. My mother, brother and I moved into an apartment of which she often had her new boyfriend over at. It has been said to me that she began the relationship before her last one was over, but that's besides the point. She married him five years into the relationship, six months prior to when I'd written this. It was five years of name-calling and physical fights between him and I that I believe haven't affected me much, but I don't know if that is accurate or not.
In December, two months ago, I was arrested by two officers under the Mental Health Act. I had suffered my worst mental breakdown (I suffered one when I was ten-years-old, had an overdose when I was thirteen-years-old, and another when I was fifteen-years-old) when my mother's husband used a baseball bat on my back; shortly after I held a knife to my throat. I don't remember the exact details of the night while my breakdown was still in place, for I couldn't process a thought. I remember crouching behind the television and screaming, even after my mother's husband stopped. Just screaming and screaming, possibly for hours, until the police arrested me and took me to the hospital. That was the night I was placed in a foster home by an officer.
I waited at the hospital with the male officer from 7:00pm until 1:00am for an after-hour worker to arrive, though she was to be there at 10:00pm. We took the time telling stories to each other, and he asked me what my father did. Though I merely said "I don't know", the first thing that had popped into my head was my father standing over my bed while I'd been sleeping (I lived with him at his mother's house while he was on parole for armed robbery, from Febuary 2010 - August 2010), splashing water on my face and praying out loud for my redemption. My mother had told me he suffered from drug-induced schizophrenia, and from his obsession with believing that I was possessed with demons (and that the government had placed a computer chip inside of me when I had been born), I believe it.
When I had lived with my father, it was traumatizing to know that my maturity level is now far surpassing his. From what I had observed of him, he is like a distressed child, throwing temper tantrums, hurting people and breaking things in the process. He popped pills and got drunk on the nights that he ran out, being an over-drunk or over-high, and a nightmare when he was sober.
At a point we had moved back into the house where I had lived with him when I was young, him, my step-mother and I, but shortly after they drove four hours away. They left for months, and I was alone in the house with no electricity, food, or water. The only time my father ever came back to the house was to stash his drugs, also eating the food that I had bought with the money my mother had given me (which was never much- $20 - $40 at a time, but I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I asked her for more) before leaving.
After and partly during living with my father, I had picked up the habit of self-induced vomiting. I often heard that I was very much like him, yet I have never been so disgusted by anyone's eating habits such as his in my entire life. This triggered my all-time low weight, reached by fasting an vomiting, of 93 lbs. Though I have managed to gain weight, I still struggle with breaking it, on an average of vomiting four or five times per week; others once or twice per day.
The night I had been arrested, I was put into an emergency foster for one week before moving to the placement I am currently in. I am getting A's in school and I am allowed to leave the house, of that I was not allowed socializing or having friends before (Febuary 2010 - August 2010). I have seen my mother once, and which my social worker is now expecting us to visit once a week, and I have not spoken to my father. I don't ever plan to. I don't know if I should say that I am doing better or worse than I was, but perhaps it's now too early to tell.
I was named after my great-grandmother (Nona), who'd been the only relative of mine that had the same color as I. Being of Italian paternal descent, everyone in my family had been very dark with her as the only known exception. Even my maternal side, a family from Scotland and Ukrania, all had dark hair and eyes.
My little brother was born only a year-and-a-half following, in the same room with a near identical heartbeat as I. He also had a full head of hair, but he had dark hair and eyes and was larger than I was. He was expected to be another girl, and after much argumentation between my parents of what to call this child, he was named after our father days later.
The three of us lived in a three-bedroom, one bathroom house in what was primarily a senior neighbourhood. I have heard many stories of how life for us had been then and there, all different but both didn't seem well. I have somewhat managed to put some pieces together, but I know that because of my parents' inability to admit their mistakes, that I will never really know the full truth. I can only write about what I know.
My father had begun business owning a gym around the time I was born to support us all, but a few years later he was caught and arrested for substance abuse and dealing, therefore having to sell it. My paternal grandmother, who seems to try to never lose faith in her son (though it's clearly traumatizing for her), had always paid his bail to life the burden on him, my brother and I, and our mother. She still does so to this day, when he has been weaving in-and-out of prison for at least the sixteen years that I have been alive. Maybe even more so that I am not aware of, and he is now forty-years-old.
At this time, my mother was inevitably using as well, even before her children were born. I don't know the intensity of her addiction, though she did manage to withdraw herself when the custody battle over my brother and I took place. It was a year ago that I was told of this while I'd still believed my mother would never touch a drug, not even a cigarette. My father, in a fight between him and I, told me many stories of her neglection towards my brother and I (through his eyes, exaggerated, though it is true). My baby brother would often be left in his crib untouched while my father would work at his gym, and I, not fed all day.
I believe this is true, for until then I could not wrap my head around as to why my grandmother would call social services on my mother for, in her words, was "no reason". Nor could I understand, though I was a small child to begin with, why I had only been 17 pounds at nearly two-years-old with hair that fell out and never grew. Again, my mother pushed it aside, telling me that this was because "my eyes were bad", therefore having "no appetite because food didn't look appetizing". Of course, I, being oblivious as always, believed. When confronted about it, however, she admitted to it all. I don't have any memories of it.
While my brother was still only a baby, my parents split up. After living in my maternal grandparents' basement for some time, my mother found a new partner and we moved into his house shortly following. I was five-years-old at the time, my brother three-years-old.
We did not see our father much over the duration of the seven years my mother and her then-fiancee were together. We had a wonderful childhood there, a big house, big family (he had two kids, a girl and a boy, both older than my brother and I) and anything we could ever want. My father came around once every two years if we were to be lucky, doling out toys and games, and keeping us for one night at his mother's house. He was not allowed to be unsupervised with us, nor bringing us out of the house unsupervised; and he was not allowed leaving town with us under any circumstances.
The most vivid memories of him as a child are of him and my mother's then-fiancee fighting and swearing at the door, the same night he'd taken us, and his much younger girlfriend stabbed him in the arm while he was driving. The incident had been in the paper, and a child I was friendly with at school clipped it and brought it to me. I was in second grade.
From then on I had not seen him for years, yet my mother's then-fiancee loved to talk to his children (in front of my brother and I) of my father's latest arrests, one of which was smuggling drugs across the border, and saying that they "should be lucky that they don't have a father like that". I must've been used to his behaviour, for as a child I was never bothered by it in the slightest. A part of me had always been offended the moment I would hear, "Hey, guys, guess what their dad did..." in a light tone, but I never showed it for the sole reason that I never felt like he was my father. Like I said, I was not bothered by it at all.
When I was twelve-years-old, my mother and her then-fiancee split up. My mother, brother and I moved into an apartment of which she often had her new boyfriend over at. It has been said to me that she began the relationship before her last one was over, but that's besides the point. She married him five years into the relationship, six months prior to when I'd written this. It was five years of name-calling and physical fights between him and I that I believe haven't affected me much, but I don't know if that is accurate or not.
In December, two months ago, I was arrested by two officers under the Mental Health Act. I had suffered my worst mental breakdown (I suffered one when I was ten-years-old, had an overdose when I was thirteen-years-old, and another when I was fifteen-years-old) when my mother's husband used a baseball bat on my back; shortly after I held a knife to my throat. I don't remember the exact details of the night while my breakdown was still in place, for I couldn't process a thought. I remember crouching behind the television and screaming, even after my mother's husband stopped. Just screaming and screaming, possibly for hours, until the police arrested me and took me to the hospital. That was the night I was placed in a foster home by an officer.
I waited at the hospital with the male officer from 7:00pm until 1:00am for an after-hour worker to arrive, though she was to be there at 10:00pm. We took the time telling stories to each other, and he asked me what my father did. Though I merely said "I don't know", the first thing that had popped into my head was my father standing over my bed while I'd been sleeping (I lived with him at his mother's house while he was on parole for armed robbery, from Febuary 2010 - August 2010), splashing water on my face and praying out loud for my redemption. My mother had told me he suffered from drug-induced schizophrenia, and from his obsession with believing that I was possessed with demons (and that the government had placed a computer chip inside of me when I had been born), I believe it.
When I had lived with my father, it was traumatizing to know that my maturity level is now far surpassing his. From what I had observed of him, he is like a distressed child, throwing temper tantrums, hurting people and breaking things in the process. He popped pills and got drunk on the nights that he ran out, being an over-drunk or over-high, and a nightmare when he was sober.
At a point we had moved back into the house where I had lived with him when I was young, him, my step-mother and I, but shortly after they drove four hours away. They left for months, and I was alone in the house with no electricity, food, or water. The only time my father ever came back to the house was to stash his drugs, also eating the food that I had bought with the money my mother had given me (which was never much- $20 - $40 at a time, but I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I asked her for more) before leaving.
After and partly during living with my father, I had picked up the habit of self-induced vomiting. I often heard that I was very much like him, yet I have never been so disgusted by anyone's eating habits such as his in my entire life. This triggered my all-time low weight, reached by fasting an vomiting, of 93 lbs. Though I have managed to gain weight, I still struggle with breaking it, on an average of vomiting four or five times per week; others once or twice per day.
The night I had been arrested, I was put into an emergency foster for one week before moving to the placement I am currently in. I am getting A's in school and I am allowed to leave the house, of that I was not allowed socializing or having friends before (Febuary 2010 - August 2010). I have seen my mother once, and which my social worker is now expecting us to visit once a week, and I have not spoken to my father. I don't ever plan to. I don't know if I should say that I am doing better or worse than I was, but perhaps it's now too early to tell.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
When I was a child , I remember
naive, wise but unwise
watching television , all the while
love romance laughter
thinking that nothing will ever happen to me
like that , both good and bad.
but life surprises you
Even now, I do the same
daydream daydream daydream
think think think think think think
daydream daydream daydream
because I don't know how NOT to
and not to doubt them.
I sit there , moving
unnerved tense and anxious!
at the table , escaping
window floor window and all over
she's doing great now - she's so happy here and
"I'm
fucking
losing
it!" and I don't say it
I don't say things like that , hardly.
to teachers social workers parents foster parents
naive, wise but unwise
watching television , all the while
love romance laughter
thinking that nothing will ever happen to me
like that , both good and bad.
but life surprises you
Even now, I do the same
daydream daydream daydream
think think think think think think
daydream daydream daydream
because I don't know how NOT to
and not to doubt them.
I sit there , moving
unnerved tense and anxious!
at the table , escaping
window floor window and all over
she's doing great now - she's so happy here and
"I'm
fucking
losing
it!" and I don't say it
I don't say things like that , hardly.
to teachers social workers parents foster parents
I could play Stevie Wonder and David Ruffin as much as I could ever want, but I don't think I will be getting any sleep tonight. When I'm laying down I love to hear their voices, "Always" by Stevie and "A Rainy Night in Georgia" by David from the Temptations are favorites. Tonight, though, I don't think it is going to work. My thoughts are racing again.
I think of... drinking hot chocolate in a teacher's office and telling my life story to her, as I've told my life story many times to different types of people. Of voluntarily putting something in my mouth without counting the calories, despite the four pounds that I have put on. Of hearing sentences beginning with "When you move to Calgary..." over and over again. Of thinking, "What have I done to get here?"
I think of... drinking hot chocolate in a teacher's office and telling my life story to her, as I've told my life story many times to different types of people. Of voluntarily putting something in my mouth without counting the calories, despite the four pounds that I have put on. Of hearing sentences beginning with "When you move to Calgary..." over and over again. Of thinking, "What have I done to get here?"
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My heart only fluttered at first. Then, it progressed at a flustering speed to feeling as if it were about to pop straight from my chest, and then it ached. My mind said at me, "You're having a heart attack," and for a few seconds, I considered acting on that thought. But instead, I clutched the arm-rests of the plane and told myself that it was likely only a panic attack.
My mind, however, seemed to have two personalities: one based on logic and the other emotion, the dominant. It screamed, "You're going to have a heart attack, can't you feel it? It's happening! It's happening! It's happening! It's all because of purging! You wanted to be skinny, and now you're going to die! You're going to have a heart attack! You shouldn't have done it! You shouldn't have done it, especially after that overdose! Your heart was already in bad shape, you moron!"
I closed my eyes and counted my breaths as calmly as I possibly could in attempt to push these thoughts from my head. I wished off the plane for a cigarette, off the plane as a whole, for my persistent anxiety had heightened to the point where I was clutching the white arm-rests so tightly my fingers had begun to bleed. It stung brutally, but I couldn't stop. I needed to clutch something.
All the while, the logical part of my mind had decided to break through, and in it's tiny whisper, I heard: "No. You have to be strict with yourself, for it's only a matter of time before this becomes out of hand. Try to get a hold of yourself and take deep breaths before you lose the little control you have left. In the end, you aren't going to help yourself by freaking out; it is only going to make things worse than they already are." And though these words, of which I knew I should follow, were quickly terminated by the deafening screams of my emotional personality.
It had told me that I was going to die. And sitting in a plane so homely, so small, beaten-down, dirty, and cramped while facing the front window of it's blunt nose, it was hardly questionable to ignore. It was standing vertically to where I could see the cloudless sky and only seconds from taking off, and I reasoned that if the "heart attack" didn't kill me than this ride would. It could take off any second now, for I wouldn't be given warning. I lost all control at this point, and though I couldn't take my eyes from the window, I could sense my blood running down the arm-rests and pooling on the floor. My fingers hurt so badly.
"Don't worry," said a foreign voice, "It takes time to get used to this."
I turned to the face of an old man, and a familiar face at that. It triggered a sunshine memory of my paternal great-grandfather (My Nonno, who had passed away in October), for his eyes and smile were so strikingly identical to his. Though I'll never know who he was, sometimes I think that he must've truly been my great-grandfather, only much older.
"A-Are you kidding me? Used to what?" I asked, and he only looked at me, and perhaps through me, without answering. He only had a frozen expression on his face, no emotion, a look of which I had taken as a bad omen. I wished he would've left me alone, and more importantly, I wished that I could excuse myself from the plane in some way. Finally, after a long pause, he said: "So, what are you here for?"
I laid back with closed eyes, and the first image to appear to me was a baby chick. She was so small that her feet fit perfectly on the face of a dime. I loved her so much, and missed her so that it seemed I could literally see her in my thoughts. She hadn't a name, but she was beautiful, and I loved her.
"I'm flying for the chick," I told my great-grandfather, as I fetched the dime of which she'd stood on from my coat pocket.
So, I had seen my great-grandfather in a dream. What could he be telling me?
My mind, however, seemed to have two personalities: one based on logic and the other emotion, the dominant. It screamed, "You're going to have a heart attack, can't you feel it? It's happening! It's happening! It's happening! It's all because of purging! You wanted to be skinny, and now you're going to die! You're going to have a heart attack! You shouldn't have done it! You shouldn't have done it, especially after that overdose! Your heart was already in bad shape, you moron!"
I closed my eyes and counted my breaths as calmly as I possibly could in attempt to push these thoughts from my head. I wished off the plane for a cigarette, off the plane as a whole, for my persistent anxiety had heightened to the point where I was clutching the white arm-rests so tightly my fingers had begun to bleed. It stung brutally, but I couldn't stop. I needed to clutch something.
All the while, the logical part of my mind had decided to break through, and in it's tiny whisper, I heard: "No. You have to be strict with yourself, for it's only a matter of time before this becomes out of hand. Try to get a hold of yourself and take deep breaths before you lose the little control you have left. In the end, you aren't going to help yourself by freaking out; it is only going to make things worse than they already are." And though these words, of which I knew I should follow, were quickly terminated by the deafening screams of my emotional personality.
It had told me that I was going to die. And sitting in a plane so homely, so small, beaten-down, dirty, and cramped while facing the front window of it's blunt nose, it was hardly questionable to ignore. It was standing vertically to where I could see the cloudless sky and only seconds from taking off, and I reasoned that if the "heart attack" didn't kill me than this ride would. It could take off any second now, for I wouldn't be given warning. I lost all control at this point, and though I couldn't take my eyes from the window, I could sense my blood running down the arm-rests and pooling on the floor. My fingers hurt so badly.
"Don't worry," said a foreign voice, "It takes time to get used to this."
I turned to the face of an old man, and a familiar face at that. It triggered a sunshine memory of my paternal great-grandfather (My Nonno, who had passed away in October), for his eyes and smile were so strikingly identical to his. Though I'll never know who he was, sometimes I think that he must've truly been my great-grandfather, only much older.
"A-Are you kidding me? Used to what?" I asked, and he only looked at me, and perhaps through me, without answering. He only had a frozen expression on his face, no emotion, a look of which I had taken as a bad omen. I wished he would've left me alone, and more importantly, I wished that I could excuse myself from the plane in some way. Finally, after a long pause, he said: "So, what are you here for?"
I laid back with closed eyes, and the first image to appear to me was a baby chick. She was so small that her feet fit perfectly on the face of a dime. I loved her so much, and missed her so that it seemed I could literally see her in my thoughts. She hadn't a name, but she was beautiful, and I loved her.
"I'm flying for the chick," I told my great-grandfather, as I fetched the dime of which she'd stood on from my coat pocket.
So, I had seen my great-grandfather in a dream. What could he be telling me?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Voice of Wisdom
Brilliantly red, orange and yellow they were
the trees I saw stood unusually vibrant
casting shadows on the leaves between them
upon the healthy grass sprawlingly
in the breezy warmth
only October could bring.
I imagined it was like a day
a perfect day of which pictures were taken
for a calender
or a landscape you'd see
in a painting.
Tremendous it was, yet simple
magnificent and lovely
and beautiful.
Left to my thoughts as silence prevailed
they were not lonely
but only in an angel's grace
they whispered
and whispered wistfully
in truth but mostly
in wisdom.
They whispered when passed the rows of stone
of flowers in every color
they whispered to me
their stories
in that angelic voice
the truest voice
of wisdom.
"Once again, life has taken on it's true form
earth to earth
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
in sure and certain hope of Ressurection into eternal life."
Those words of prayer resounded the marble walls
as if it were an age-old song
never created
simply only
existed.
Innocent, lively and pure the child, my cousin I held
why he had faith in me, I'll never know
he had those eyes
bright blue, clear
sunny and wonderful
like my own at his age.
I was once a child, not long ago
but it does
it seems a distant time
long ago
when one never expects, and whether what is wanted
that one is always surprised.
I came to this place and saw his name, still partly a child
a million times throughout sixteen years I'd seen it
on birthday cards
christmas cards
gifts of any kind
written big in black
in bold
in marble
and as forever on I'd see it now.
Before the gates closed on the cars that left
of the people the exited
crying, sobbing
remembering
mourning
he had given me a final gift, a good-bye
the greatest that's ever been given.
I came to this place a child within
scared and lonely
and confused, yet all-knowing
but I had left with his forever-remaining
voice of wisdom.
the trees I saw stood unusually vibrant
casting shadows on the leaves between them
upon the healthy grass sprawlingly
in the breezy warmth
only October could bring.
I imagined it was like a day
a perfect day of which pictures were taken
for a calender
or a landscape you'd see
in a painting.
Tremendous it was, yet simple
magnificent and lovely
and beautiful.
Left to my thoughts as silence prevailed
they were not lonely
but only in an angel's grace
they whispered
and whispered wistfully
in truth but mostly
in wisdom.
They whispered when passed the rows of stone
of flowers in every color
they whispered to me
their stories
in that angelic voice
the truest voice
of wisdom.
"Once again, life has taken on it's true form
earth to earth
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
in sure and certain hope of Ressurection into eternal life."
Those words of prayer resounded the marble walls
as if it were an age-old song
never created
simply only
existed.
Innocent, lively and pure the child, my cousin I held
why he had faith in me, I'll never know
he had those eyes
bright blue, clear
sunny and wonderful
like my own at his age.
I was once a child, not long ago
but it does
it seems a distant time
long ago
when one never expects, and whether what is wanted
that one is always surprised.
I came to this place and saw his name, still partly a child
a million times throughout sixteen years I'd seen it
on birthday cards
christmas cards
gifts of any kind
written big in black
in bold
in marble
and as forever on I'd see it now.
Before the gates closed on the cars that left
of the people the exited
crying, sobbing
remembering
mourning
he had given me a final gift, a good-bye
the greatest that's ever been given.
I came to this place a child within
scared and lonely
and confused, yet all-knowing
but I had left with his forever-remaining
voice of wisdom.
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