A poem
There are days when you long
for the waves
to rush over your feet, and
you discover the kind of days
made for digging in garden dirt
as sweat pours down your face,
and you believe you recognize
the signs of happiness again
after you've known darkness
of the darkest kind.
With time and resolve rising
from the deep, you become the
hero; the kind you imagine reality
tried to keep, and after you've
lost your child,
there's nothing worse the
world may take. The more I
plant in the ground,
I add evergreens
to show thoughts of her
are forever with me.
In my daughter's gardens,
a new spirit comes
alive. I heard an older
woman, who lost her baby
when she was young, say,
"When you're in the garden,
the world is alright, and
you're happy."
I touch the ground, and
bird song awakens at a
time when spring teases,
and also fakes.
But even when we learn to
live again without she, who
watered plants after it
rained, the world will invade
the days when you long for
waves. The snakes and
beetles creep, and you
attempt to show you
wear a cape only to feel
it fade to gray, as if it
was washed and dried
too many times.
In the days after the sun went down,
one arrow flew. I ducked and missed
the blow. I tried to stop, but
when worn down
from all the news, the demons
whose voices sometimes
speak, grew louder than they'd
been since I'd resolved to
grow my daughter's in my yard.
In the moment when I
wished to pull away
from all the people and all
I'd heard, the bird song
stopped. The rain poured.
I couldn't find any resolve
in the dirt. After more and
more conversations and
rise of words, I stopped
for gas on the road side.
A noise rose so loud
everyone turned around
as a vehicle sped up, and
I couldn't bear the sound.
It vibrated and gutted my
soul, cutting through all
the work I'd done. The
sound grew louder and
louder, the people and
all their words spiraled
like an old Hitchcock film,
and my memory faded to
May 27th when ...
It rained, and it seemed
spring failed in its promise
of warmth. The ambulances
rang in my ears, and the red
lights twirled and twirled as
my life's greatest nightmare
unfurled. I prayed to God,
but He didn't hear. That day
I lost my faith, and knew he
wasn't near. I road in the
front until we arrived and ...
In gas station parking lot
by myself, the pump
gushed, as I returned.
My ears were covered, and
eyes opened as the sound
waned. My heart beat
faster, and I had to recall
where I was going after
I'd relived what was gone.
I'd hoped to garden
and release the poison of
the gas station episode,
because no one knows
what it's like to live between
what's real and the shadows.
Just like the days of check
out video, there's no way
to rewind, and life's not
always that kind.
I took a pill to sleep, and
another to calm my mind,
as the rain drops glistened
on the ground in the porch
light. I thought I'd be better
the next day, and there's a
phone call. I hear the voice
yell, yelling, yelling at what
is beyond my control
when I'm trying to protect
and attempting to hold ...
I disallowed tears to roll.
I've come so far, and refuse
any retreat. But I long after
such days for a drive to the
mountains with you on a
Saturday. You said to me,
"Come home. This is the
best day to garden. The
rain will come again
tomorrow, and I'm sorry
you're sad."
So, after the days when the
super hero's cape fades to
gray, and the snakes and
beetles creep; I dig in the
garden dirt. I resolve the
past days, and bury them
deep below the soil's
crest. I rather dream in
evergreen than the
gas station flashback,
and all the voices
speaking before, after,
and in-between.
There are days when you long
for the waves
to rush over your feet, and
I'll remember the words of
a woman on a garden show,
who lost a baby long ago,
"When you're in the garden,
the world is alright, and
you're happy." And, I'm glad
you're at the kitchen door
to know you're here to
protect and hold.
Some Dianthus flowers are
growing now, and candy
tufts will peak soon. In
the garden, I plant
evergreens, so I know
thoughts of her stay
with me.
Photos and Poem by R.A. Bridges, copyrighted R.T. Dickinson, 2024
Corrie's Season 