so today
as I tiptoe into the first night
that guides me into
the first day of a new year
and offer heart and hopeful promises
and time I will give
to let go of what was
and ask for what might be,
I offer my gratitude today
to whatever higher power gifted the earth
around me with thunder and lightning
and poured out miles of tears
so today, on the anniversary,
I might finally be able to breathe
like any other grieving human
for the mother I lost
the father whose heart never returned
and a brother who decided to ski the universe
and left me to disband that which we called home
and live on a journey to find
places that pass for a safe space to visit
when I remember was and want to smile at is.

11 comments
Selected byRaymond Huffman
Dale M. Tushman
Dale M. Tushman

I have been a psychotherapist for over forty years.  My practice areas, mental health & addiction, provide me with more opportunities to see how much of a kaleidoscope life is.

 

I started as a prose writer at five when I first wrote to Santa Claus explaining how thrilling it was for a little Orthodox Jewish girl to secretly be writing to him.  Poetry showed up after a 12-year writing silence due to life demanding more than full attention.  Poetry became my shelter-in-place and means of recognition, a highly satisfactory space for this core introvert until a recent doctor’s note referring to my age rattled me so badly I decided to tell my stories by any means, which is what I ask of my clients. The teacher keeps learning.

I write to remember my origins and dreams. I write because other people’s risks have helped me find my way, so telling my story may light the way for another spirit on the loose.  The teacher keeps learning.

I am a transplanted New Englander living in southeast Georgia, a place not terribly much touched by modern times.  One of the good things about this buckle-of-the-bible-belt is that it does love its crazy people.