I look at her
the girl I was
and stroke her hair away from her face
I thank her for all she did for me
to get me here
I know she is not who I am now.
I know we would disagree
Still, I am glad she kept her eye on our Northern Star.
without her perseverance, I would not have found me
I looked up
at our bathing suits drying on the shower curtain rod
and realized
i’ve never been living in your shadow.
My perfume went missing
but I never searched for it for it
because I knew where it was.
I always implicitly trusted that you would give it back.
You were hungry and cold
so I brought you inside,
bundled you in my favorite quilt,
and cooked a gourmet spread.
I watched man after man
throw roses in your direction
and it made me smile
to know that my shoulders you stood on were doing you some good.
Your footprints
left welts,
but it didn’t matter
as long as you were happy.
I don’t know why I didn’t expect it
when you gutted me in the middle of the night.
I watched fondly with fading vision
as you looked through my possessions before leaving with a full bag.
the things you love
(have worried smooth with pining pensive handling)
(have fed you like nectar in the fearful searing wastes)
(have tied you wrist to wrist to soul to the ones who went ahead
and lie ahead and lie their necks on the line for you)
don’t even fit in these assholes’ junk drawers
I passed him once—
a figure alone
on a weathered bench,
its wood worn smooth
by time and tears.
He sat beneath a tree
that bowed not from age,
but as if it were practicing humility.
Casting a shadow of comfort and trust.
His eyes—soft as moonlight.
His hands—still as waiting.
Time paused.
A breeze rolled in,
light and slow,
and for a second,
I didn’t feel the need to rush
He smiled
like someone expecting me,
yet asking nothing.
No demands.
Only room—
and rest.
So I sat.
He spoke no words,
but silence itself leaned in.
It had a heartbeat,
and I— I was learning to listen.
I spoke of small things—
weather, work,
my love for the forgotten 90s.
Then deeper currents surfaced—
fears, longings,
the ghosts of regrets,
and blessings I had never
bothered to count.
He never interrupted.
Never corrected.
Only stayed—
present,
like mercy wrapped in skin.
All the while,
a thought whispered low:
He knows me.
Not in pieces—
in wholeness.
As one who’s walked
every crooked path
and still calls it beautiful.
I told him I doubted.
That I felt small.
That prayer,
some days,
felt like shouting into fog.
Still,
he smiled.
And I went on—
The more I unraveled,
the lighter I felt.
Like unpacking
a life I’d left buried,
finding treasure
hidden beneath
years of ache and distress.
A breath escaped—
deep and clean.
And I saw it:
I hadn’t just recited my life.
I had relived it—
bathed in memory,
washed in grace.
It felt like…
prayer.
When I turned
to thank him,
only the bench remained.
Empty.
The breeze—
soft, soothing—
brushed my face.
And somewhere inside it,
a whisper:
“Maybe all He ever wanted…
was your heart.”
I rose,
chills found their
way to the surface
of my skin.
Then wondered—
Had I just spent the afternoon
talking to…Him?
It’s weightlessness
Lay heavy on my mind
Like a feather
Drifted down from some
Worn catechism
Lain out before me
Testing my faith
Charting my plight.
How can one struggle
With only a thought
So fleeting
That it hardly seems real?
The purpose, too,
What purpose except
To help me see things
In the proper light and
Give my determination
Ever stronger will
To hold on to my beliefs
And bury myself
In what I deem as right?
And must I carry
This heavy thought,
(So weightless in my hand)
Forever in this
Sleepless night?
a black bear–
not a cub
but not full-grown,
descends the bank
toward the lake’s edge.
notices us.
stops.
stares as we motor
closer. turns.
scampers
into thick woods.
nights I inhale
a glimpse
of wildness
prowling the edge
of dreams–
no panda
munching bamboo
no Asian bear
with healing powers
but a Stygian fur phantom
lumbers on all fours
tries to possess me.
I nest deep
into my quilt,
will it to flee,
to find old growth
and delight–
undistracted by humans.
somewhere it can’t frighten me
The natural order is anything but
natural, if it is orderly,
because nature is chaotic
and so disorganized
we feel compelled to squeeze
it into some recognizable
shape: a list, a chart, a table,
a timeline, even a tree
is preferable to the wild
and irresponsible proliferation
of life forms and forces
all around us.
I was my Mother’s doola
her breath ceased in my arms
blessed to bathe her body ~ wrap her in soft cotton
pajamas for her finite sleep
as blotches of red-purple began to creep
her monkey spirit stilled
she shared with us 21 hours of grace
then bagged and taken to the mortuary place
body frozen ~ casket chosen ~ friends beholden
her daughter’s “to you sweetheart” hula & haiku lei
Ancestor’s from other side appear ~ inspiritu ~
gifting a presence and seamless ride
an illumined room friends and family did weave
a precious quilt of life’s sweetness shared
blessed with a peaceful lucid drug ~ free transition
heart warmed stories loft her to the other side
full of grace, angels filled the place
winged chariot sails to the other side
thanks to God and angels, who did not hide
no one should ever die alone
Mom’s gift full of grace ~ a classic final act
promises death is not a scary place
dress rehearsals, no need,
wrapped in kin’s Prana Love and Grace
such a sweet sacred place . . .
ALOHA . . .
