VERONICA LEE

All the things that felt given
were possibly not.
Taken?
Did I take too much?

Poured out from the belly of
a far too young mom,
married only to escape the 
chaos of her home,

We knew poverty.
Even with Dad, but
struggle was the only known.
That, and survival.

But the poverty was not
just in money, but in fathers.

Each abandoned the 
feminine of us, leaving 
behind broken hearts,
broken homes and 
more survival.

Thankfully, Mom landed
in the mailing room of
buddy Silicon Valley.
Times were against 
young, single moms,
but not her tenacity.

Yet the woundedness from
her own childhood trauma -
parental kidnapping, 
abandonment, orphanages,
foster homes and, when
there was no more room
and age betrayed her,
juvinelle hall and even a
mental hospital - encapsulated
her heart for preservation.

It was only meant for me,
her one adored child.

But relationships were not
so fortunate.
For her and her sisters - 
also teen moms.

We were a pod of
doing-our-bests, within
the matriarchal arms 
of my determined mom;
oldest, wisest and - 
in her eyes - absolutely
responsible for all.

Our home a haven for
children and moms in need.

What was given?
I can't see given.

But I still had a vision
of better, of family,
of fairytale, I suppose.

But I only knew abandonment
and dysfunction, so what
I found matched the
woundedness
of my story.

Who was I to have a love 
each wanted but only
arrived as pain?

Was I waiting for the gift
of a foundation that had
not been walked? Or 
did I have to build it?
With what?

I had to rearrange the
fencing around my heart,
face the patterning 
I inherited.

So perhaps that's what was 
given? The vision to see,
to heal, and to allow love in?
Or did I take opportunities
that challenged me to grow?

I still wish for given, still
hope and hold my arms 
wide open for given.
As I often wonder if 
taking is an old pattern of
​survival, still waiting to heal.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Afaa Michael Weaver: "all the things that felt given"

​

Most days I still feel joy.
Subtle, inward, almost unnameable. 
But the relief - it's still there. 

This week, joy has been so soft,
so quiet, that I've almost forgotten her.
I sense she's needed a respite;
to dive gracefully beneath the surface
of ordinary.

So ordinary is all I can see, and the 
plainness of her is unnerving,
sad even.
I feel sorry for ordinary, yet I can't 
seem to face her directly.
There's something in her presence that
frightens me.
Her eyes peer too deeply into 
my soul.
Where I hope she finds substance.

What if ordinary rejects me,
as I often do her?
What does that say of us?
Of the tension between us?

Oh, I must find joy!
I feel so much safer when
she's in the room.
It makes everything - well - 
lighter.
I somehow find value in her eyes.

Sorrow, you ask?
Who mentioned sorrow?!
I don't necessarily want to 
speak of her, as conjuring up
her name is far too risky.

Call me superstitious, but I was
always taught that we draw to us
that which we focus on, so I would rather
not give a line or more to sorrow.

Oh, but I see you've invited her.
So I will respectfully give 
her space... as long as she doesn't
intrude on mine.

Her name is so soft, you may not 
believe her to be so forceful.
But I've watched her - noticed how
she moves. Quietly, sometimes
sidling up to ordinary - or even joy - 
and steals the spotlight.
She knows she is far more pitiful
than ordinary; her eyes deeper, darker.
You can certainly get lost in them
if you gaze too long.

Oh, just look how many lines sorrow
has swallowed!

I search, desperately, for joy or
avoidance or anything that gives
me comfort.

And, then I spot her... she is across
the room, staring tenderly into 
my eyes. Her gaze too strong to
break. And, of course, she is nestled
right there, confidently between 
joy and sorrow.
I accept her presence, her gift of 
certainty, as her eyes caress the
luster of my soul.
And I feel gratitude.

Inspired from a line in a poem by Marie Reynolds: "most days I still feel joy"

Unconscious, perhaps,
but last night the thought
to call you seemed as normal 
as a weekend night of your
bay area stays.

It was the first time.
Brief, odd. Though it didn't hurt
as much as I had thought it would,
it did catch me by haunting surprise.

Wow. It finally happened.
Almost three years late.

When Jay committed suicide
the aftershock was horror.
Did I have the urge to call him,
or was it the waking up the
next morning that reminded me
of its finality - that it had
actually happened?

I don't know - don't remember - 
as it's been fifteen years and 
I could simply be absorbing the
violent aftershock meant for his mom,
my forever-changed aunt.

I've endured other shocking deaths,
like Brian. Another suicide. He was
our first "practice child" - he and
his sister. But we didn't see them 
anymore, too many years and miles
had grown between us. Was it
the same kind of "he's gone" shock 
and forgetting? I don't think there
were urges to call, just sadness.
And horror. 
Another cousin down.
Another too young lost to forever.

So when you were diagnosed with
this-is-still-too-young-to-die, I guess
I had many months to remember 
it was real.

Caring for you, feeding you soup, 
lifting your arms onto pillows,
hoisting you down into that chair 
with as much expertise as an
unexpectant widow-to-be
anchored our reality into my bones
while yours lost the support of your 
atrophying muscles.

I was sure I would wake up to,
"Did he really die?" on Thursday,
two days after you left us.
Wednesday was a rollover of
your leaving; making things safe
and okay, and hosting friends 
to view your body at our home.
Giving our kids and myself more
time to be with you.
There were things to do,
no time for forgetting.

But Thursday was open, new.
Your body had been taken, 
reverently by gloved strangers;
the living room now empty
of your hospital bed.
Only flowers and incense remained.
And our girls.

We thought we'd walk down 
to the river.
Instead, a phone call rerouted us
to the hospital to bring 
my mom home for round two.

Hospice, round two.
More morphine in small, 
undesired doses.
The remembrance to stay
in my body to next walk her
to her sacred threshold.
Which we did, just ten days
after your journey to 'notherland.

Days, months, years have gone 
by, cloaked in shades of grief.
But I never forgot.

Sure there were times - too
many to name - that I'd stop
in disrupted storyline, so
confused that it had been
revised so drastically. 
Without my consent.

But last night, the forgetting
was so real it took me to
genuine, "I'm going to call Eric"
in that assured split-second.
It felt like a time you were
working in the bay area,
gone for just the week,
our touchstone between
weekends, voice to voice.

But the instant of forgetting
ended with an exclamation point
of, "there it is!" As if my practical
mind had been wondering if
I'd ever forget you actually died,
since that forgetting seemed
natural, vitally shocking the 
system back to the necessity
of purging grief.

As much as I had dreaded it,
the forgetting, the urge to call you, 
was more tender with me
than I anticipated.
Soft, almost sacred - a warm
and painful embrace of our love.
Your heart calling to check in
through the vastness of 
our separation.
​