05-09-2013, 12:23 PM
The Redwoods
Memory is a thick, dense fog,
an eerie white wall,
whispering, moving, and never resting.
Reach – and reach – and reach
to rediscover what was once forgotten.
But I have always been there,
standing tall in your childhood fog.
Naïve eyes perceived me as infinite,
as a black silhouette who could reach into a dark night sky
so cold human breath becomes nothing but a faint, white cloud
and retrieve the many radiant stars.
Standing guard, my wise eyes have witnessed everything.
I could revive the memories and tell the stories
which even the oldest of you have forgotten.
If I could talk, I would speak forever.
I would speak
of the young children who developed
thick callouses on the palms of their small, soft hands
from climbing my thick, rough limbs
for hours upon hours,
of the children who built tree houses
of pine plywood
and protruding nails that rust as winter’s waters wear them away.
I would speak
of the hearty laughter that floats from the glowing house
warmed by love and home cooked meals
as older brother, younger sister, mother, and father
gather around the small family dinner table,
of the stories served with each meal.
I love to listen to the stories of everyone’s day,
memories of outrageous family reunions in Iowa,
and even the worries of what is to come.
I would speak
of the angry screams of a fight
so powerful hearts hit stomachs at the mere memory
as well as the sorrowful apologies
that pushed tears over the brims of each eye,
of the loving relationships that became stronger.
I would speak
of the life lessons learned,
of the values instilled within each of you:
honesty, hard work, happiness,
family, friends, forgiveness,
strength and courage to live as yourself.
I would speak
of the children struggling to find themselves,
of the adults they became.
I would speak…
there is not enough time.
Already, you have all moved away to begin your own lives.
The eldest climbs rank in the military
as he tries to support his own wife and children.
The middle child,
once lost and troubled,
has finally found his way
to chasing dreams he never thought he would have.
And you, the youngest of them all,
have only begun your own journey.
You are learning life’s hardest lessons
as you attempt to survive your first year of college,
your first year of complete freedom and responsibility.
You were thrown into the fierce icy water.
That is the real world.
The black water transforms flesh.
What was once soft, tender, and pink,
is now a sickly purple shell.
Bear witness to a place that does not accept change,
a place that does not appreciate differences.
Society judges you based on
race, ethnicity, gender, sexual preferences,
anything.
They call it the “melting pot,”
or what they consider to be the “norm.”
It is to lose your culture, your heritage, your identity.
It is to lose who you are
which is something I watched you struggle to find.
But you, you are different for you were
raised in the house which I protected.
It was in this house, on a busy suburban street,
that you began to craft an ever-expanding quilt.
Each individual piece of the quilt represents
a value, a life lesson, an important belief
that you have gained by living life.
Emerald green four leaf clovers on one square,
large, gorgeous blue and black butterflies on another,
an asymmetrical heart
one black, bold music note
a red brick wall with a trio of missing bricks,
and even a broken beer bottle.
This blanket continues to grow
as more pieces are created,
as more pieces weave together,
to become the person that you desire to be.
You have wrapped this blanket around yourself and
it warms you as if the sun itself were shining down upon you
to shield you from that toxic water.
Only two remain in a house that was once filled with
birthday celebrations and family traditions:
countdowns to the annual family reunion,
Dad’s famous goolosh and fried taters,
the red plate brought out four days a year to honor days of birth,
everything you want nothing more than to be a part of again,
everything you wish you had cherished more as a child.
They wait for you to return
so that they may hold their babies one last time,
but it is only ever for a brief visit.
You do not know
that I have seen this,
that I have heard this,
that I have felt this.
I have done all of this and more.
I have been your guardian angel,
your protector.
I cannot follow you into the world
for my intricate roots reach too far into this earth.
But I beg of you,
always remember
the one thing we have in common:
roots.
Your roots are here, with me, at home.
If only I could talk, I would speak forever
Memory is a thick, dense fog,
an eerie white wall,
whispering, moving, and never resting.
Reach – and reach – and reach
to rediscover what was once forgotten.
But I have always been there,
standing tall in your childhood fog.
Naïve eyes perceived me as infinite,
as a black silhouette who could reach into a dark night sky
so cold human breath becomes nothing but a faint, white cloud
and retrieve the many radiant stars.
Standing guard, my wise eyes have witnessed everything.
I could revive the memories and tell the stories
which even the oldest of you have forgotten.
If I could talk, I would speak forever.
I would speak
of the young children who developed
thick callouses on the palms of their small, soft hands
from climbing my thick, rough limbs
for hours upon hours,
of the children who built tree houses
of pine plywood
and protruding nails that rust as winter’s waters wear them away.
I would speak
of the hearty laughter that floats from the glowing house
warmed by love and home cooked meals
as older brother, younger sister, mother, and father
gather around the small family dinner table,
of the stories served with each meal.
I love to listen to the stories of everyone’s day,
memories of outrageous family reunions in Iowa,
and even the worries of what is to come.
I would speak
of the angry screams of a fight
so powerful hearts hit stomachs at the mere memory
as well as the sorrowful apologies
that pushed tears over the brims of each eye,
of the loving relationships that became stronger.
I would speak
of the life lessons learned,
of the values instilled within each of you:
honesty, hard work, happiness,
family, friends, forgiveness,
strength and courage to live as yourself.
I would speak
of the children struggling to find themselves,
of the adults they became.
I would speak…
there is not enough time.
Already, you have all moved away to begin your own lives.
The eldest climbs rank in the military
as he tries to support his own wife and children.
The middle child,
once lost and troubled,
has finally found his way
to chasing dreams he never thought he would have.
And you, the youngest of them all,
have only begun your own journey.
You are learning life’s hardest lessons
as you attempt to survive your first year of college,
your first year of complete freedom and responsibility.
You were thrown into the fierce icy water.
That is the real world.
The black water transforms flesh.
What was once soft, tender, and pink,
is now a sickly purple shell.
Bear witness to a place that does not accept change,
a place that does not appreciate differences.
Society judges you based on
race, ethnicity, gender, sexual preferences,
anything.
They call it the “melting pot,”
or what they consider to be the “norm.”
It is to lose your culture, your heritage, your identity.
It is to lose who you are
which is something I watched you struggle to find.
But you, you are different for you were
raised in the house which I protected.
It was in this house, on a busy suburban street,
that you began to craft an ever-expanding quilt.
Each individual piece of the quilt represents
a value, a life lesson, an important belief
that you have gained by living life.
Emerald green four leaf clovers on one square,
large, gorgeous blue and black butterflies on another,
an asymmetrical heart
one black, bold music note
a red brick wall with a trio of missing bricks,
and even a broken beer bottle.
This blanket continues to grow
as more pieces are created,
as more pieces weave together,
to become the person that you desire to be.
You have wrapped this blanket around yourself and
it warms you as if the sun itself were shining down upon you
to shield you from that toxic water.
Only two remain in a house that was once filled with
birthday celebrations and family traditions:
countdowns to the annual family reunion,
Dad’s famous goolosh and fried taters,
the red plate brought out four days a year to honor days of birth,
everything you want nothing more than to be a part of again,
everything you wish you had cherished more as a child.
They wait for you to return
so that they may hold their babies one last time,
but it is only ever for a brief visit.
You do not know
that I have seen this,
that I have heard this,
that I have felt this.
I have done all of this and more.
I have been your guardian angel,
your protector.
I cannot follow you into the world
for my intricate roots reach too far into this earth.
But I beg of you,
always remember
the one thing we have in common:
roots.
Your roots are here, with me, at home.
If only I could talk, I would speak forever
