Memoir

A Teacher's Plea (My Pet Peeves Essay)

My class discussion begins: a lovely, thoughtful question asking 9th graders if teenagers can really be in love. Hands fly up and the energy is charged like a puppy woken up from a nap. The debate begins. “No, they can’t. We’re not ready for babies and bills.”

“Not babies! Just being in love…ya’know feelings of commitment. I know several teenagers who really are in love.”

“My aunt and uncle met…” the conversation continues, but my sense of smell is a blinking red light. A horrible egg smell seems to rise from the masses.

“Sick!” “Ben!” “Wasn’t me!” he says laughing.

This is my pet peeve—kids who fart in class. What, can’t you hold it? You like the smell? You feel that sick? Why must flatulence be a topic a high school teacher must address? I had one such student my second year of teaching. Johnny Gonzales—I will never forget his name; I’ve lost several nose hairs because of him.

A room full of twenty-six 6th graders, full of energy as it was, and I saw this student for two classes: grammar and literature (4th and 6th hour). Every day without fail, twenty minutes into class, a horrific smell would waft across the room—or worse?—a honk would disrupt our activities, and not one from the busy street out front. Giggles, of course, immediately followed and it was hard to get the students back on track. So, I wondered what to do. Do you call home for flatulence? Do you write a referral for continued class disruption? I decided that a note to Mrs. Gonzales would be the route:

Dear Mrs. Gonzales, I’m quite embarrassed to write this and I wouldn’t do so if it wasn’t a sincere problem. Johnny comes to both my classes each day and lets out several toots. He must not be feeling well as this has persisted for over 2 weeks. Could you visit with him about his flatulence? Thank you, ~Mrs. Davis

Dear Mrs. Davis, the envelope said with a smily face. This was a good sign, I thought. I opened the letter chuckling: We have talked to Johnny and he knows how disgusting farting is—and how rude it has been to do so in class. We have decided that taking Beano in the morning will help. Let us know if this continues. I know how embarrassing this must have been to write the note, but we appreciate it! We don’t want our son to be known as a farter! ~Mr. And Mrs. Gonzales

Several weeks went by and Johnny was doing just fine. . . until a certain Tuesday. Before school on this day, Johnny bounded up the steps to my class and raced into my room, “Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis!” He panted and hollered my name. “I didn’t take my Beano this morning!” Big, panicked eyes—he wanted help.

“You’ll be fine, Johnny,” I said fighting back my laughter. “If you feel a little…ah…gurlgly in class, just head out, OK? You don’t even have to ask to leave. OK?”

“OK. I can do that,” he left less panicked but still had his lips pursed.

Class came and 30 minutes had passed and nothing from Johnny but comments about Tom Sawyer. But then…the big, panicked eyes. I discreetly pointed towards the door for him to excuse himself. He jumped up, quickly walked. But as he opened the door, he hung onto the nob and pushed his rear into the hall and let one fly, a honker of all honks! Johnny felt better and looked relieved only to turn back into class to face all of us in hysterics. He too, was doubled over in laughter. How do you get back to Tom and Huck from this?

Is there an innate desire in boys to fart? Is it their animal call? It doesn’t impress girls, so do they do it to impress their buddies? The College of Education at any university, at least to my knowledge, does not address boogers, farting, or other bodily functions. Apparently it is assumed students don’t do this or that no one will care? I’ve never been in a class where ‘ripping it’ goes unnoticed. Honestly, go to the bathroom, learn to hold it, or take Beano! All of these work, so figure it out. Do your butt barking in the halls and leave the classroom free of flatulence!

Chante Souvent du Verde (Sing Often of Green)

I am colored…light blue and faded into pink; a sunset seems to grow from the skyline. I am this mystery, a mix of hues. Emotions squeezed from an ominous, grey-black cloud, I remember the day I became the oak tree struck by lightning. I wanted a light blue, cloudless sky overhead. I was not Michele, pretty and pink, I was now tough, charred, and angry. Age 25, 3 teenagers nested in my branches. Knots knarled and branched wanted to remain winter: brittle and lifeless. I fight to keep cold the ground of my life. But spring came and green grew. At times I feel a termite, decaying to the core; but through it all I remain myself: strong for the battle. Wood can fight fire when wet with tears. I scream with anger—my 1 child dead.

I pound the soil wanting answers.
I search the sky for signs of life.
Black soars and circles-----not the life I wanted to appear.
I sing to forget.
I smile to breathe in happiness. …It works and my grey gloom lifts; fog blankets the earth and light blue again colors me.

Nature provides my sanity—it’s my life’s shelf. My roots are colored green, deep, South Dakota born breathed with pine’s purpose. I stand tall now in winter with my needled branches providing protection and comfort. Now that I’ve found roots on Briarwood Ave., Colorado blue spruce is the perch I’ll settle upon. I am the mosaic Bonjour on my front door, dreaming of vacations never spent; its letters as blue as the Seine River. I’ll stand on those shores some day and feel light blue upon my toes.

I sing to soothe.
I sleep to revive.
I laugh to show love.
I love, I love, I love.

Ceramic, smooth to touch, Grandma’s Lincoln red roses, dahlias, and four o’clocks bloom on the vase of my life. Her Catholic mantra fills in the cracks of my vase, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” I’ve had to repeat this day in and day out at times—my vessel must hold more water than it seems. Its made for enjoyment, yet is wrecked easily; I’m colored bold as orange ice cream and white as this paper. Pen stains it and I live for its drawings. Letters create the words I live by; the alpha and omega and the budding spring---they teach me. Summer’s schnook wind whispers solace, fall brings fireworks, and my winter is now snowmen in scarves. …For now, my skies will have a hint of light blue.

------------Inspired by Zora Neale Hurston's essay: "How it Feels to Be Colored Me"

Random Autobiography

I was the Mother’s Day gift my dad teased my mom she wouldn’t get.
May 8th—I was early to make her a mom.
Michele with “one L”—
have never been able to find my name spelled right on a pencil, sticker, or a pen.
I still look though.

Once I protected my sister and 2 friends from a Doberman pincher. A deep man’s voice yelled from my throat—who was that brave 11-year old, anyway?

Once I jumped off a cliff, my buddies shot off fireworks and sparks ignited. A federal offense to start a fire in a national forest, I knew.
I rolled, tumbled, cut and bleeding, stomped out the fire in my Hirachi sandles. Fined $500 after we called the fire department. Jeff wouldn’t let us pay for it. I respected him for that.

Once I raced down this 200-ft. steep road in my neighborhood—racing to beat the neighbor boys. My dad and I built this rocket to be fast with huge tires and an old kitchen chair for a seat. I won and loved being first.

I’ve loved many times, dreaming of weddings, but feel my groom of 11 years is my luckiest dream come true.

I’ve made chore charts, grounded teenagers Becca and Eric, for messy rooms, soon realizing I better clean my own if the rule was to work. I soon changed the rule. Teenagers not my own, but their mom I am—ten years later.

Laugh so hard, so often. I can’t wait for the next funny moment. Once I spit red Kool-aid all over my birthday guests because I was laughing so hard.

Grace is not my middle name as once I dropped a peach margarita down a woman’s back, tripped and threw a whole tray of food across the restaurant; what an artistic display guacamole and enchilada makes.

Twice I’ve been a mom, but only see the smile from one child.

Once in class, had a student get a rubberband stuck on his head, shades of purple, red, and white pulsed across his face. I’ve never seen a rubberband fly across the room quite like that one.

Once I had a student hide in a cupboard trying to scare me…the cabinet locked and I laughed so hard while we screamed and laughed from inside.

Once I had a senior…a senior! get stuck behind a pole in my class. Pushing one way while another student pulled, we did get him out. I wondered what I would say if we didn’t.

Once I had a student scream in pain from the back of the room. Looking up I saw a stapler hanging from his ear. Trying to wrestle a stapler—yanking it off his ear, is what he did, not me. 10 seconds later, another boy turned green, truly, and I ran out the door with him to find a trash can. Coming back, another student was heaving in the aisle and I realized my classroom was an infirmary and I was done teaching that day.

When we lost Chloe, students sent cards—truly hundreds—wishing me and my family well wishes. Jeremy and I would sit on the couch laughing and crying at their messages. I would not have survived without them. Teenagers bleed and cry right along with us, despite what the news proclaims about them.

Daily I am thankful for my profession.

Daily I am exhausted by students’ energy.

Daily I walk my dogs Tucker and Wyatt and feel their love through their sad and sweet eyes. I must have been a dog as I often use silly voices to tell others what they have to say.

Sisters so close, we finish each others’ sentences and a mom that dresses just like me.
A dad that will do anything for his daughters and has become Jeremy’s mentor.

A mother’s day gift I was. Wanting to be a mother again, someday; my life began as a gift and teaches me that life will always be a surprise.


“This I Believe---With Pinball Poignancy” submitted to the NPR "This I Believe" essays: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138

“Pull up your britches…no harm done…put on your smile…”—phrases I heard often in my childhood. They rattled in my head dropping like a gumball into the silver tray; these words dropped into my beliefs, my core, my inner cavity.

Scraped knee, tears streaming, a tight hug, a band-aid and then the “britches” comment. It was time now to be brave and stand the 7-year-old tall I was. This harnesses me as if strength were suspenders holding me up. I helped raised three teenagers not my own, survived two deaths of parents, and then encountered the saddest loss—our little girl. Grief is allowed I learned, but bravery must prevail. The work ethic of "digging in" even in sorrow carries me and I believe in its power.

Broken glass at dinner, spilled milk seeping across the red linen, Christmas tablecloth, my parents quickly get up to remedy the mess and then say the words that I now say to my son, to guests, to family. “No harm done” is true and resonates the value of being together and the replace-ability of material goods. Arguing with my mom, pillow damp from teenage tears, these words also comforted me and the “I’m sorry” became so easy to say. “No harm done” allows for mistakes in life and is always followed by forgiveness. I believe my ability to look past people’s unkind ways, accepting them is a treasure that started from a simple gesture over spilled milk.

I remember breaking up with my first “serious” boyfriend, heart-broken and my mom telling me to “Put on a smile” as I walk down the hallway at school the next day. “Just be nice and you’ll feel better.” The drama of high school and college friendships became easier as I learned my mom was right; smiling, finding humor in relationships instead of finding faults became second nature. I believe my smile teaches kindness and creates a lifestyle that doesn’t take oneself too seriously.

Three simple phrases turned into priceless mantras about being brave, being empathetic, and being humble—a resiliency that is like a pinball bouncing through me. My parents’ patient words seem simple and I believe truly formed me. I will pull the spring-loaded lever of life to impact this to my child and hopefully these words will rattle and settle within him.

Baseball

Learning to play baseball fit him like his light-tan glove--comfortable, easy, natural. He loved knowing the difference between "going to 2" or being "the cut-off" as a ball soared over his head behind 1st. "Beautiful, Carter!" was a bark his coach yelled that sprang onto his chest bouncing into my soul. The hours listening to coach commands lulled and lifted my spirits; June baseball at age six transported me beyond just the 1-week absence from school.

As summer peeked around my high school's halls, hot weather was her backpack and I knew the heat was coming. Teaching is strange; we lose and gain ourselves every 9 months. This summer, seeing her pending hours as unwanted homework, I dreaded greeting her in the hall. Yet sitting in a camping chair, sweet smell of grass like basil to spaghetti, watching Carter bat, my breaths took in the aroma. I realized summer had cooked up some solace.

Rounding first, he slid into second, adjusted the batting helmet, and shot Jeremy, Melissa, and me a front-toothless grin. I should have worn my track shoes and run a lap for every smile; I too could have earned Cold Stone. What I did do was capture a few swings of the bat, throws to first--digital phots sent to grandparents not able to be there. An hour turned to two truly felt like twenty minutes and vanished a school year of to-do lists, grading mountains, and seemingly endless meetings.

"Mom! Mom!" I blink out of tranquility. "Bo wants to be just like me," Carter says with a shoulder swagger I've never seen. Conjure back the to-do list and add: work on a little humility.


Soul Map

I mapped my heart today, not corollaries and veins,
But how I am filled, bleeding emotions and air-giving life,
I feel tears inside comforted by a giggle,
Pictures of silly days, family draped around each other.
Christmas moments amidst candy canes.

I mapped my heart today, strange to see its picture,
What would it say to see itself?
Does this look like it does in its mirror?

Teach to live each day as passionately as I feel it beating,
Knocking to remind me to truly live…and believe.


Oak's Strength

What is wood is solid, unbending
a place to set books and sit tired bones
Black was the color of one day where I
wood move.

Hands clasped, we filed into "our" pew,
Laughing through tears,
"2 parents dead by 16," Becca said, "I'd say
I own this pew now."

We sat on worn wood, soft to our
fingers as we played with the crumpled kleenexes.

I notice Eric, age 19, his body starting to fail him--
sadness now strong over spine.
He grabs the edge of the pew--
for stability, for comfort,
The wood stood tall,
lifted him, at least inside.

He quietly grieved, then with
hand on rail,
his head lifted back above the oak.

This day I saw wood's purpose:
giving strength.


She Embodies Christmas

I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day;
yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret. I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.


Poetry Hides

...In the tears that I strangle so they won’t fall,
In the race my feet never run, waiting in Reeboks,
In the plants drooping over ceramic pots screaming to be noticed—
“Water me, dammit,” they demand.

...In my son’s crooked smile as he says, “No mama, I can do it myself.”
In my husband’s hands hard-working, firm and often close-fisted, holding in his pain,
In my laughing lines framing blue eyes
In the pen I hold tightly as I stare blankly at the dust bunny peeking from under my fridge,
In Carter wrestling-dribbling-arms surrounding-pushing-knocking-me-over-“I love you
Mama” time,

Poetry hides in peculiar places taunting, whispering, and loving.
Take a moment to find it.


Grandpa Hurley
March 14, 2005

Sparkling blue eyes gave the message that each of us grandchildren are important. You found a way with asking questions to show us how special we are. Table-top conversations turned into hours of wondering and remembering memories of your life and how they relate to ours. Thank you for all of those precious moments.

Gentle commandments, “Jeremy, the lawn could sure use a mow,” “I have a fence post that needs to be dug out, you got a half hour?,” as you adjust your black rimmed glasses above a smile. Half a day latter and promises of an ice cream cone: I thank you for sharing your boyhood stories, determination and persistence of getting jobs done.

Rocking from toe to heal you made each song and story we ever told meaningful. We will never forget you telling your stories and singing your songs. Taking the time to share your wisdom to college dorms, two dollar bills at Christmas time, hand written “I love you’s”, and poetic ministries will stay with us with each of our passing days. Embrace that tells you that you are one of my children, you and grandma taught us children how to love: two stories weaved from Grandma’s mouth to yours complete each others thoughts, a hardship that has found the funny moment, a name remembered, a place recalled, the long looks, helping each other with laughter. Thank you for showing us respect, humor, and how to love.

We will always see you standing at the edge of the farm gravel road or the walk-way waving good buy until we greet you walking up to heaven’s doorway.


Labeled?Jumbo Size Kosher Pickles

Long lines formed, awkward middle schoolers, pretending
To be older than we felt,
Bonnie Bell LipSmacker in my pocket—strawberry.
It felt like the first day of school, donned in new clothes--
Sweatin’ it in stiff blue jeans from
Summer heat, yet we were in the mood for fall.

Physicals were required, doctors waited inside,
“Urine sample?” “Yes, in my sack, here.”
Students would fidget and wish the process to be over.

We gabbed and gossiped, looked at faces we didn’t know from other schools:
“He’s cute.”
“She should’ve shaved.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
Bits of conversations surrounded our stickiness.

A boy, Tom Heald
Sam’s Club-size pickle jar,
No brown-paper sack surrounding his specimen,
Snickers, jeers-- “Ya been saving it all summer?”

Red-faced and freckles dark brown,
A student of West Middle School, no longer
Has a name, only a place---
“Not here, go away, freak.”

This person stripped of humanity, holding his life in
Glass, see-through as he felt,
Yellow and aged in a moment,
Did he wish to melt away? S
tart the day over?

I reapplied the gloss, tried to smile his way to say,
“It’s ok; they’re jerks.”
He didn’t notice—anyone.


What I Have, I Must Not Forget
Monday, 22 May 2006

I have… pain that whispers continually,
a house we don’t own yet, but one that is ours,
a son on earth and a daughter in heaven
a window that takes me somewhere else.

I have… a love for salt and yet hate disagreements— feels like salt on wounds.
I have… two dogs that are pinballs inside our house
and fireflies inside the night that’s my soul.
I have… a mom who smiles even when she’s sad,
I have the same smile.

I have… a 4-wheel drive that longs for speed and riveting roads,
I have to teach in the weekly moments of my days,
but often wish for more teachable moments.

I have… a love that makes me feel at home
even though he no longer has a home, but ours.
I have laughter that is loud and seeks for humor…always.

I have… what I do and remember that what I don’t have--- is probably for the best.


Green Fuel

Darker than the first leaves sprouting out of limbs, yellowed spots hardened,
crisp and crinkled, I am surrounded. Shaking in the wind, rattling like
the poisonous snake’s tail hiking in tall grasses trying to soak up the
last of summer’s sun, I hike unaware. Dog pants, tail wags--
whether an hour run or a whole day; Wyatt never tires
unlike my legs. Panting, humming, taking in nature, a
Monarch flitters by and lands on a pink yarrow. I
pause to capture the image; the digital image
remains as the butterfly takes flight. This
solace fills my soul; I am absorbed in this
hike forgetting the city, to-do lists, and
worries. Nature fuels me with its green.


Geometry for an English Teacher

Scribbling, doodling, wondering, wandering, I fill my pages with words. Boxes—3 dimension,
triangles and spheres, the margins is an easel for brainless walks with my pen. Creating
stories, dialogue that feels real, intense images— Scratched off and thrown away. My
poem feels finished, but my fiction feels forced. I write to bleed and cry and scream,
at people and sorrows too deep and too real to approach. It’s an outlet, an island,
an escape I take; focus on the feelings, yet not getting too close to the ink that
flows out of my pen.


A Black and White Vacation

stacking, flipping pages, scanning words,
writing notes, skimming, asking,
laughing at words,
watching the story play in my head,
escaping, relaxing, going some place else,
I soar into words and come out
a villain, a drug dealer, an artist—
in love… with reading.


Blue Vinyl Smile

Blue synthetic leather, rippled and cold to my fingers, the gold letters plainly spell “Photos.” I flip through the pages laughing at the 70’s styles: bell bottoms, butterfly sleeves, and blonde flipped hair. Smiling faces seems to dance between the vinyl pages—a childhood of strong family ties from South Dakota to Louisiana. I wonder if my happiness quota had been filled up too soon; my sadness in my adult life tends to drown me. And yet, sitting on my couch today, espresso brown leather album smooth to my fingers still show pictures filled with smiles. Where are all my tears?
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Three teens sitting on the Cameron’s couch, shocked, mouths opened as we explained that Social Services had called and explained that due to “your father’s drinking and neglect of the children, we are putting your siblings in foster care.” My husband’s face drained of color. We made phone calls: aunts in Michigan, grandma in Arkansas and one in Arizona, uncle in Colorado, and even wealthy family friends in South Dakota. No luck and certainly no use. “Sorry, this is a mess your parents created.” “This is terrible news, I’m sure, Jeremy, but it is truly out of your hands.” “The kids will be fine and they know where they can find all of us.” These were not the sentences we thought we’d hear. Smiling I say to my husband of just a year and 2 months, “Well, I’m always up for an adventure.”
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“We decided that even though it will be the biggest challenge of our life, we want you three to move in with us and try to end this circle of alcoholism. We want you all to have a future and know that you’re loved.” We meant those words. We really did. Smiles and tears, our stomachs ached from the stress, yet I smiled and hugged. Why didn’t I scream and run?
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Smile is defined as “a facial expression characterized by turning up the corners of the mouth; usually shows pleasure or amusement” and “To express cheerful acceptance or equanimity” (WordReference.com). Why then, do I smile so often? Three teenagers move in just a year after marriage—I smile. Husband’s two parents dead 4 years into our marriage—I smile grasping shoulders, handing out tissues. Three more family members, my grandfather and both Jeremy’s grandparents—more smiles as I write poetry reflecting on their life and memories. And the saddest, my unborn baby born at 31 weeks. It took a while for me to smile, but I do. I smile at students’ silly antics in class, smile for the fact that Carter is alive, I am alive, I am alive; I have to remind myself sometimes when my alarm rings. “Cheerful acceptance” is not how I feel, yet I smile.
----------------------------------------------------
Hamlet tells us, “that one smiles, and smiles and is a villain.” Wickedness does seep between the upturned lips. At times my rage is so great, I lose who I am and smiles become sleep which becomes dreams. This anger, this unanswered why screaming in my brain comes out in my writing at times:
“Metal Remains”
I dream my fingers are knives,
Corruption upon my skin
They scratch and tear, yet
Only redness remains,
I want to bleed to
Feel the pain on the
Inside be released… A
nd yet these fingers, soft
And gentle lie waste in
My bed, strapped they remain,
Paralyzed with fear and needing freedom.

I stare at nubby, white ceiling
Not knowing the future,
Take a big bite and let its jagged fumes pierce,
it taunts me.

Getting out of bed, I would pummel it,
cottage cheese would remain,
Instead, barren and cold, the grey trays and food uneaten are all
That comfort me.

When old women say, “It smells of snow,” trying to chit chat,
Teeth clenched, I dream again
Fingers with blades.

Leave me rotting, “TV remote?” they ask.
“Why would I want to escape this paradise?” Sarcasm is now my voice.
Family huddles outside my room,
“He isn’t a religious man,” I hear,
“Should we call a priest? Does he have friends?”
Asks a neighbor, I smile and imagine my flesh hardening to metal,
forgetting the questions people ask,
it’s really none of their business.

My wish is granted, Transformed and gone,
Cuts, chops, and chasms I can create.
Yet, I never imagined the
Feeling without a soul, still smiling--
It is cold, bitter as a penny.
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Angus Trumble, author of the The Brief History of the Smile, explains that the smile is first captured in Greek sculptures, “their mysterious smile animates them, gives them life and breath” (McCaughey 1). As I imagined molting into metal, I still smiled and life did remain.
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Today I wonder about the wearers of smiles; Mona Lisa smiles yet her inspiration remains a mystery. Retracing my steps on this Tuesday in January, I recall a conversation that pulled on my tear-strings, yet out came a smile. My friend belly round, babe inside, due in six short weeks explains that her OB appointment was terrible yesterday. My insides shake, yet I give constant eye contact and slow nods. “I lost a pound. Pregnant women don’t lose weight! The baby has grown, but the ultrasound technician struggled to get the measurements. I told them about you, Michele, and how scared I am.” “I’m glad you did and it’s ok. Keep in touch with your doctor and go with what your instincts tell you. They’re right.” My smile was small, but sincere. I won’t go into the pain or sorrow, but am here for a friend. My smile does not bring pleasure to me, but to its intended.
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My answer drops before me typing black and white on the page. Smiles. Smiles that laugh and console, love and lie, live and die. I know why I smile and mostly it’s for others.
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Singing “Snapshot” loudly in my uncle’s Ford, we turn the corner on a cool, fall day and my sister and I slide across the vinyl seats. Cotton slips easily and so does the day: melodies float under our laughter and I see my reflection in his rearview mirror, smiling. Teethy grin, smiling, happy days spent with family. I guess my photo books tell the story I want to keep. The sad stories have their own album.
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Ashes

Kept in an urn, 3 inches tall,
Hopes are cold to the touch.
Wicker-weaved dreams dropped in the handled box,
Evergreens and rain embrace in the storm,
Their lullaby wounds my heart,
Bleeds pink on the day my daughter was born.


Precious Little One
Unwrapping the pink calico and lace bag,
the pink satin ribbonslips through my hands,
I know what’s inside, my treasure, my sorrow,
God’s gift to us as He has her now,
I remember the past week in flashes,
a video of bittersweet—lemonade that seems toquench your thirst,
yet sits in your jaw bone making you thirstier.

“ I want her to have a pretty name, mom,” Carter said between sobs,
“ Rose, mom, can we name her Rose?”
“ Of course we can, how about it for her middle name?”
“ Yeah mom.”

The sonogram moves over my tummy, no sound but the loud fuzz like
the radio not on a station,
we should hear the heartbeat,
we don’t…and never do.

The letters and cards offer prayers, love, and questions we all will never have answered,
Mrs. Davis, I love you, get better, come back,
we miss you,
simple phrases that caress my ache inside;
I cherish my students and wish everyone had them in their world,
our flowers and cards perch on every table and counter—
thank you we say, sadly,we would rather our surfaces were bare.

We watch the screen, there she is: perfect spine, toes, hands, lungs, and yet
there’s blackness where her heart should be beating…
Beat, dammit! Lord, why is this happening! Beat, dear God, make her heart beat!Stillness.
Blackness has never made me so sad.

We cleave to each other, our sobs echo in the hospital room that is as big as our apartment,Nothing matters,
except that our little girl is no longer alive,
She remains within in me, seems alive,
yet she’s gone.
I need to see Carter.

There she lies, yellow and pink daisies and a red, red rose—
red as her lips, pink asher-upturned nose—
it’s Jeremy’s, it’s Carter’s, it’s mine
—it’s just perfect,
my dad’s hands seem to cover her body;
he signs the cross on her forehead,
sisters’ words comfort,
their eyes cry with ours,
my mom is our rock, making hard phone calls,
cleaning, washing, and loving—
Jeremy, Carter,and I are so blessed to have them in our lives.

The chaplain comes,
Jeremy and I cry and pray,
Chloe wrapped in several blankets,
Why, Lord?
Why did you take her Home so soon?
Jeremy makes the sign of the cross on her forehead and we
cover her head, goodbye, our precious,
I know, we will survive, and she will be loved,
“ And now we have an angel, mama.”

“I didn’t know what to say or do, but I knew I could get in the car and drive here, so that’s what I did,”Eric arrives, a wonderful diversion: shopping, eating out, and watching Carter entertain his uncle.

Small hand and footprints black,
they look like they’re fresh,
pressed as if she could wiggle and breathe,
these inkprints and memories are all that live on.

I love you, precious little one, my daughter, Chloe Rose.

I close the flowered bag, wipe my tears, and sigh,
Thank you God for taking care of my child,
I pray that you will hold her close and love her until I can myself.


A Child's Message

Carter climbs up next to “Miss Katie” after he asks
to hold Kassidy,
“ Of course,” she smiles,
“ I’m so glad she’s healthy,” he adds then,
“ I’m kinda’ like her big brother. I mean,I know Charlie is really her big brother,but I could be one too.”
“ Absolutely, that’s exactly right.”
Through tears we all know this child is blessing.

Life turns like a leaf in the fall,
Green, strong, waving in a breeze, then veins of gold sneak through,
-----this life has fallen.

Miracles such as this one in Skyridge astound me.
We lost what was to be our little miracle a short 3 ½ months earlier,
but we came back.
We came back with love, with hope for her future…and ours.

Carter taught me an important lesson;
I lock it inside hoping that I can find it whenI feel summer turning to fall,
He’s giving such sincere love, glad for Kass’s health,
he found his purpose in her life and a message for me:
Life is circular and purposeful;
open your eyes.