I brought you home
intended for display
but you were
used for play,
How many times have I found you around the house?
in a drawer?
with the toothbrushes?
in a toy parking garage by the pimped out Hot Wheels?
The little red haired boy
who never wears pants
and runs through the house
all I try to arrange
refuses to let me feel sorry for myself.
“Wait, this is important” I say, wanting to wallow a little in my sadness.
“Nothing’s important!” he yells up at me.
So, I leave the dishwasher half loaded
warm milk on the counter
and sit on the gritty floor
to play with the red haired boy
and Orange Buddha
who for today
lives in a tennis shoe.
Beth writes about the power grief has to transform us for the better, despite our best efforts to fight it every inch of the way. Most of her writing is done with minimal or no editing, and comes to her in a "chunk' from "somewhere else", requiring this busy mother and small business owner to write in the middle of the swirling chaos... upon which she thrives. See more publicly embarassing bravery at Reedycreekgirl.com