i used to wonder why, but as the gold spreads through the leaves
of the dogwood tree your father and my father and a farmer
down the road rescued after the tornado, i gave up questioning
why … at least as often as I once cursed the sky for no other
reason than i had none to blame but myself. They can say
angels aren’t for our keeping, but i still wonder when my
autumn sunset will come that I may lay down my sword
and shield. It’s not that i wish to leave the Earth. It’s just
i’ve grown tired of the weight i carry, the grief i bare,
and how in the world i can stand to walk one more step.
when i saw the driver of a red truck wrap her body
in a towel from the back, i looked to the sky, and said,
“i’m sorry i led Rosie, your dog, to die.” i did not want to
say to the world, because i wished not to hear judgement
of what we should or should not have done because if
they saw my heart, they’d see frostbite, black and purple
scars, and blood long dried and bled. i love my son. He is
my whole world, and sometimes, sometimes i see another
fire i can’t put out. But almost everyday, in every other
breath, i say, “i miss my Little Girl.” So, I turn up the music,
something fun from 1999, and say to my students, “Keep
it up beat” because i know i cannot stop and cry.
Someone said, “Why are you here?” I said, “My children are
here” because they, and my son, are the children I have, so
I’ll play the music, and say, “Dance,” because i can’t stand
a slow beat. They can say angels aren’t for our keeping, but
i’ll wipe the sweat from my brow, and face whatever death or
illness touches me. i’ll hold the sword, carry my shield, but i’ll
still say to the children i have, “Dance” in memory of the
angels not for my keeping.
For Rosie, Corrie’s dog
For Corrie
Corrie's Season 