Weeping Myself

Once, there lived a girl,

drawn with infinite blue skied eyes.

She awoke at 6 AM each day

to her mother repeatedly calling.

Her name, Youthful.

Breakfast was ready.

Oatmeal.

Maple & brown sugar.

Her favorite.

Especially when her daddy added

butter.

She always lingered

longer than necessary,

taking each bite preciously.

She loved the slow-paced life.

After breakfast, mother helped her dress.

Sometimes, when she needed help waking fully,

her mother would put on Hilary Duff or S Club 7.

She would get lost in melody.

singing through teeth brushing,

hair fixing, and waiting for the bus.

She’d go through school with an aid

by her side.

Walking to & from class.

This woman saw her.

Her chattering mind

always finding way off

her unhinged tongue.

Talking of this boy

three years younger.

He talked to her.

He told her, I love you.

What she was dying to hear.

She told herself this was fine.

She joyed over bowling each Saturday.

The tears filling her eyes when the 7th grade teacher

placed a map marked red with D or F.

She remembers the way the teacher said,

You need to study more or try harder.

Or ask for help. What she feared most.

The aid knew her anxiety in speaking up

her need fearing a swift, curtesy no.

It was easy to for her to talk this aid.

The way conversation flowed,

as one Christmas when she surprised

the girl with a charm bracelet.

A sun. Music note. Bowling pin.

Her name. J U L I A.

Colored gold.

A reminder to shine.

She was loved.

She was cherished.

She wasn’t forgot.

She was known.

She was a friend.

She was understood.

Years have passed.

The bracelet has gone

A new one replaces

her bony left wrist.

I’M A GOD GIRL.

White against black backdrop.

A pink heart is at one end.

A name of a girl on the other.

Not her own, but starts with J,

who sings about Jesus holding

tight as she cries.

I don’t want to grow,

leaving this laughing face

a voice said to be sweet,

charming the Beloved’s heart.

She doesn’t know what to do now.

Swinging her feet against the bedside,

wondering what happened.

Why does she begin crying,

mourning a lost child,

begging me show her

Someone hears.

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7 thoughts on “Weeping Myself

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