Teachers

There are two statements that I am proud to make: 

first, I am a mom, and secondly (and no less proud), 

 I was a teacher.

Before I taught (like the rest of the uninformed)

I thought it’d be easy; it was talking

in 40 minute bouts, with summers off

and all school holidays. All the kids would be

like me: motivated, well-behaved, and ready.

I was wrong.

There were some, of course, but

far outnumbered by the ones who

didn’t care, didn’t want, didn’t have time

for education in any form.

Who were simply serving their sentence:

no structure, no modifiers, no grammar, no rules.

I wasn't ready.

We didn’t teach English, or math, or history, or chemistry.

We taught kids. We taught communities.

We taught living and getting along

and how to slog through those unknown swamps: 

the impenetrable forests of expectations, the endless

pursuit of someone else’s standards.

I learned to teach.

This is our legacy: not certificates

or degrees, or awards, 

but people—getting through, getting by,

living their best lives, continuing

to live, and to learn, 

Morning Walk

 I have a plan. 

We're going on a tour this fall, and there will be walking. 

A LOT of walking, by my usual couch-potato-rooted-to-the-sofa standards. 

And so, to prepare, I'm going to walk all summer, each day. 

Inside, outside, rain or shine, 

up stairs, down stairs, maybe even (horrors!) at a gym. 

I refuse to be one of those laggard geezers, 

hobbling along behind the group, 

breathing hard, and dropping, exhausted, 

at every pause in the tour. 

I am better than that. Or so I say.

And so, this morning, with a hint of cloud in the sky, 

I get up before sunrise and walk to the river. 

A single bright line on the horizon promised morning, 

and, for a few minutes, 

the bicyclist paused, 

the runners stopped, 

the ducks on the water turned eastward, 

and even the trees rustled their appreciation.

Creation paused momentarily with me

to watch the daily miracle: 

sunrise.

DIY

Stop. Dangerous. DIY.

The Harry Homeowner

who preceded us at this address

had limited skills

that he insisted on using

to render this house

a stationary time-bomb

waiting for ignition.

The dangling wire under the eaves,

connected to nothing but a power source,

sparking away, unobserved--

the faucet in the backyard

(spouting water at 140 degrees)

lying in wait for the unwary gardener--

the multiple threats to life and limb

(so many more)

that he deemed good enough,

and cheerfully crossed off his list.

 

Waiting at the Medical Building

 Canes and walkers and wheelchairs, oh my!

Slow steps, helping hands,

folks holding doors. Cars

stopping at the curb near the entrance. Ramps

that are raised and lowered. Slowly.

Carefully. Bent heads, looking down,

making sure, being cautious

because we are one fall

away from dependence

away from life in recovery,

condemned

to doctors and physical therapy,

to worlds with no stairs,

to sensible shoes,

elastic stockings,

and the old folks' shuffle.

Epitaph for a Dying Car

I hope you don't take this wrong,

but you were ugly:

A  squat and cantankerous troll 

thwarting me at every turn,

demanding attentions of which

I was incapable.

You filled a need;

that was all.

Yet amid the stops and starts,

the breakdowns and the curses,

we were irrevocably tied,

manacled by mutual dependence.

It's over now, and

it is somehow sad to see you

broken and mechanically betrayed.

Others are sleeker, more responsive,

but we had stories, we had adventures.

I'll miss you. But not too much.

Heaven

No one tells you how hard dying can be:

weeks and months and years sometimes

of silence, of separation, of being close,

but still so far away. 

Grasping the inevitable, yet,

maintaining positivity in

that long goodbye.

And no one tells you how quickly death can come,

One moment here, another gone

so fast, no warning, just missing

that laugh, that response,

that casual hug,

the inconceivable goodbye

that is forever.

Remember, however, that

on the other side, there is a heaven:

a place of joyous discovery.

Remember the quarter you found

in the parking lot when you were 6?

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unexpected surprises.

Your grandma, again bearing cookies,

the teachers you loved once, the aunts and uncles,

gone for years, but loving you still.

Think of your dog, buried long ago,

leaping again into your arms: 

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unqualified love.

The joy of seizing opportunities you'd missed along the way—

all the happy endings you’d imagined

for yourself, come to heavenly fruition,

a veritable Hallmark movie version

of a less-than-Hallmark life.

Heaven's a lot like that.

Unimaginable rewards.

No one told you how hard it would be;

today and all the grinding yesterdays

of pain, frustration, and tears.

But there is a heaven ahead:

a joyous place, where all the lost

are magically found again:

Happy reunions.

Don't ask me how I know;

Maybe I just believe...

Heaven's a lot like that.

 

Shoot

Another shooting, another gun,

legal or not, ghost or real--a gun

that shoots indiscriminately

another innocent (or maybe not)

but someone who did not deserve to die

this way, before their time..

A gun creates a fatherless child,

a frightened mother,

an angry neighborhood,

a tragedy.

A gun kills.

Not just people, but trust.

Not just a man, but hope.

A gun is a weapon of war,

made for battlefields, now employed

in city streets or living rooms

in informal wars declared by

the fearful, the angry, the deluded:

wars no-one can win,

imprisoning us all.