The poem, We’ll Still Ride Upside Down, is written for my husband as a part of our bittersweet ninth wedding anniversary. We married on December 17, 2011, I cannot imagine another soul with whom I’d share our many joys and struggles. I don’t think I could walk the road of Corrie’s loss without him.
John,
I …
Remember our discussions
of rollercoasters; the new
and the
old?
When we go to fairs
and theme parks, we
Name off the r-
-oll
-er
coasters: You
recall when the blue coaster
where every
person stands up is new.
This reminds me of a time
when
you and I stand in front
of a tree
a local mayor lights up,
and you laugh at me
because I forget my gloves.
You
offer
me your bl-
a
c
k
gloves, and later, we
STAND
in the middle of
the street, and you watch
the cars speed by on the main
road while I sh-
o
o
t
pictures of the lights.
No,
John,
the blue coaster
does not seem any
older
than the
gloves and cars speeding by.
Often we ride the
old wooden ones,
the kinds some
investment bankers encourage
cities to take d-
o
w
n for
new pavilions and the blast the
person high in the sky with a
BUNGEE
cord thrill ride.
But,
John,
(the thing is) you and
I
ride the wooden ro-
ller
coasters;
the kind to pull a
muscle
in your back when the
coaster
takes the
turn.
We ride them in the
conversation
style of
“I don’t want to ride it if–”
“If what?,” you say.
“If it’s the kind to
GO
upside down.”
“Dear,” you say with a laugh
as your ranger hat covers
your face when you look at the
ground, “It’s no kind of ride if it
doesn’t go
upside
down.”
John, in twelve years together,
and nine years married, we’ve gone
on the stand up blue coasters and
the old wooden ones bank
investors swear they’ll take down.
We go on the loops,
the kind the
real estate brochure
couples say,
“We’ll avoid those.”
When the doctor says,
“Your baby girl
has
pneumonia,” and you rush
on the up-
si-
-de down loop
to get us to the hospital.
We know the holiday
commercials where they
show children on
Christmas Eve in the
hospital, and
the only gift
we need is for her chest to
rise
and fall.
Silence on the phone,
as if
a spectre floats across some
forgotten swamp,
when I say of our son,
“He’s autistic.”
We share in the years,
and those who have th-
i
n
g
s
to say of our son when
he is small,
and the bank investors come
again to say, “It’s time to take the old
PAVILLON
down.”
Together, we
hold our daughter’s hand
after the doctors’ work
is done, and her soul
ASCENDS
to a place she is crowned with w-
i
n
g
s
as our baby’s hand seems to
curl around our own.
John,
I try to think what
gift I can give
you
on our December date after
you hand me your gloves,
and I deliver our daughter
when horses, without saddles,
run on beaches to
MEDITATION
music appear on the TV.
as we stand
before our daughter’s
grave,
you hold my hand,
and say, “We’ll still ride the rollercoaster
upside
down.”
Corrie's Season 
Reblogged this on Autism Candles.