My Daughter’s Hands

I write poems when I’m hopeful, but the medication I’m currently on dampens my desire to write both fiction and poetry. However, when any of us writers are triggered, we’re inspired. Thursday, April 27 marked one month before Corrie’s third angel anniversary. It’s an assumption that it gets easier with time. The anniversaries don’t. This one is particularly sensitive because three years marks about half of her five-and-a-half-year-old life. Sometimes when I’m triggered during this time of the year, I get sick, cannot eat, and suffer from nightmares for days. This poem reflects that reality while still being a teacher.

My Daughter’s Hands 

We were driving towards fairer sands,
but gods and fate had other plans.
I held my daughter's hands
only to find that
she left for a far off  land.

When the sun no longer casts its light,
I learn what it means to fly by night.
Captive soul to dreams in flight.
Black clouds surround, 
howls abound; lightning strikes.

We choose not our dreams for
some come to the bedroom door.
Gray fingers of a nevermore
burst open the lock,
and cast dreams to darker lore.

Harsh words lashed during day
know not how they take the rays
of sunlight from a yesterday
in the minds of those
who are plagued …

by memories of rain on
the interstate.

One isn't weak because they break
from the storm set to take 
the love you won’t forsake.
Harsh words reflect 
shadows we cannot shake.

If you see how I love the children most,
then you know I do not coast 
through the job and simply boast.
Love, for my little girl, I 
pour into those engrossed, 

or not, in the classroom seat
as each day, in May, I try to beat
my blame on me; I can’t defeat.
Know I can’t appear as an Easter
bunny at a meet and greet.

As I walk the world, I wear armor 
not to fight or make it harder,
but through this life, I must harbor
the love I truly bear for others, 
and always, for my only daughter.

If I read Dr. Suess and gave corny “I believe in you”
stickers, the classroom would have another view.
I’d never teach my kids that they can pursue 
the greatest of dreams,
and strive past limits they never knew.

I’m not a hero to all the children I ever loved, 
but I never stopped when she became a dove.
Sometimes love must wear a mask; a glove, 
because softness is stepped upon,
and after storms dragged through mud.

We were driving towards fairer sands, 
but gods and fate had other plans.
Still here I am to do my best in this land,
and hope heaven views my honest heart,
so again I can hold my daughter’s hands.