The poem below is written as a “thank you” to so many people who sent us cards, messages, or gifts in support of our journey without Corrie. This is a poem you have to read through with the biggest “thank you” to Mom and my husband, John.
Wake up in the
Northern
hemisphere
to snow, or in the
middle locations
where cold
without flakes and
winds blow with a
sound horror movie
masters attempt to
recreate. In some
places,
people rise
from their beds on
the holiday to warm
air and
Palmetto trees.
On Christmas, snow
possesses a child’s
sense of magic,
but after,
it becomes
the frozen over,
black ice
replaced by
dreams of sun,
sea breeze, and
Palmetto trees.
Such dreams,
you
are to me.
In the absence of
snow on a
holiday, or
post-Christmas
beaches and
Palmetto trees,
or you,
friends, family,
and colleagues
bring gifts to us
to remind your
father, brother,
and me to
rise from
our beds when we
feel January days when
magical snow
becomes frozen over,
and black ice
covers the streets.
You are always the
Parkway in
July when
the mountain laurels
bloom.
Friends, family,
and colleagues
bring us gifts, and
we open our eyes
halfway to see the
reasons why we must
walk in snow boots
on black ice to,
maybe, one day
rediscover sun, sea breeze,
and Palmetto trees.
Colleagues purchase
artificial flowers for the
spring and stick in the
ground balloons like
the kind I use to
stick beside the graves
of babies who take
to flight before their
toes ever caress the grass,
and the children who
surpass diplomas and
school accolades for a
knowledge beyond our
Earthly debates as I
take steps to
remember
them on the Kinder
Memorial Walk in …
… the cemetery where your
body sleeps. I can
never imagine
leaving the
grass bed plain.
To wake up and
see others take part
in the walk I believe
to honor the places
where children rest
shovels some of the
Northeastern snow
away from the
front tires of our car.
These gifts given
in the times of black
ice remind me to
wake up from
dreams of a past time
when mountain
laurels bloom in July.
A colleague emails
me on
December 10th to say
“Happy Birthday, Corrie.”
A friend, who I’d
I’d thought was lost
in a time
when we
walked in hurricanes
wearing flip flops,
and could not
walk with her on
her day in the
mountains
you love; brings a
mermaid statue she wishes
to place with me when
we will finally walk again
side-by-side to your
grave. I hear you say,
“Tell her:
I love her hair.
It’s so pretty.”
A long time friend,
who recalls you
from the time
when you never
wanted to sit in
anyone else’s lap
but mine,
brings a wooden
panel with purple
butterflies and the
words from a popular
children’s book,
“I’ll love you
forever …” that adorn
your marker,
so we have those
words at home.
Lamp posts with lights
and snowflakes
in trees
are the illusion
of magic December brings.
On the days where
cold without flakes
and winds blow
with a sound horror
movie masters
attempt to
recreate, these
gifts given tap me
on the shoulder
and whisper,
“Remember your son,
and the kids who are
more than
names on a roster.”
Students, who never
knew you at the time
you walked the Earth,
deliver gifts
one day before your
birthday. One brings
roses in a vase, and
says as if he hears
of my history
as a brown thumb,
“Remember to
water them.” Another
one delivers a bag with
chocolate mints and …
… a teddy bear
given in
memory of
you. Your
big brother places
it under your sparkling
pink
Christmas tree, so
you have gifts
on the holiday.
So many friends,
family,
colleagues,
students, and their
parents send us cards
or messages to shovel
the snow out from
behind the car, so
we may drive slow on
a Northeastern road.
Some gifts given in
the times of black
ice strike the core
of my heart, and
demand a reaction,
when for months,
I’ve established
control through the
methods doctors and
therapists advise to a
parent who loses their
sunshine. I had
thought I’d lost my
wedding bands when
your father, and I find
them one week before
a time when snow
possesses magic. He buys
a ring with your birth
gemstone, Blue Topaz,
and earrings. When
I look at my
finger, the stone
reminds me of eyes
of greater value
than diamonds in the
hometown jewelry store.
Of the gifts given in
this time of black
ice when I hear the
wind howl on
our first Christmas
Eve without you
sitting in my lap, and
I’d lie and say,
“You’re getting too
big for that,”
Mom delivers a
gift for which I
lack words:
“A necklace of
pure
crystal your
great grandmother
had left
just for you …
Do you not like
it? I can take it
back.” No, Mom,
I have no words
for a gift like that
when the methods
of doctors and
therapists serve as my
parka from the
nor’easters to come.
The snow sprinkles
on Christmas Day,
and stops five
minutes later. Hallie
leaves a gift for me
almost twenty years
before
I’d see,
and decades after
she loses her
oldest son. A gift
from a mother,
who lived for
decades after the
black ice melts,
and she again lives
in the moments of
mountain laurels
and Palmetto trees.
Words and Pictures by Rebecca T. Dickinson Copyright 2020 All rights reserved, R.T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 
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