I wrote this poem on New Year’s Day. While my family and I were happy to see an end to 2020, it brought a bittersweet and sad moment where I realized that it would be our first full year without Corrie.
When We Finally Understand Hurricanes
A cliche goes:
when you came,
so came the
hurricane. It
tore the leaves
from palm
trees and left
little more
than strewn
seaweed and
prints of waves
upon the shore …
But
I
know such a
cliche as the
hurricane
is nothing more than
a teen’s first love
broken up
as they listen to
a soundtrack of
the ocean’s depths
and strewn
seaweed and
prints of waves
upon the shore.
A long time ago,
I listened to a
soundtrack of
the ocean’s depths
when I thought I
knew love,
broken up,
only to laugh
at myself as you
would laugh with
me. “Silly, Mommy,
you thought that
was love?”
Then the cliche
of trash cast off
in hurricanes in
youth becomes
nothing more
than a can
and can
opener that
cannot carve
out the top,
and I laugh at
myself and say,
“Guess I need
a new
can opener.”
When you came,
I saw a sunrise
over gray waves,
but in its light,
the sparkles
appeared as
silver. I tried
to capture
drops of
silver when I
felt storms
rise from life.
“Mommy,
you tell so
many stories,”
I heard my
daughter,
Corrie, say.
“Remember
when you
were sad,
and I
hugged you
because
you were sad.”
Yes, I
remember.
Only
when
you
flew
away from
this place,
and I
could
not
hold your
hand;
did I
understand
metal from
trailers torn
apart, and
left in trees,
or the
flooding in
basements
and winds
at high speed.
Then I knew
love of the
hurricane
kind, and
what it
feels like
to
wonder
where
you’ve gone?
Yes, I know
hurricanes
for I stood
in the eye,
and the
heavens
heard me
cry the
moment
when my
daughter
died.
“Mommy,
why
do
you
cry?” I thought
I heard a
child ask.
Maybe it
was her,
or the wind.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson. Copyright 2021 All rights reserved by R.T. Dickinson.
Corrie's Season 