You died today. You never even said goodbye before you left. Now, I am left here alone. How do I go forward in this physical plane without you? Life seems cold and stiff. What would the future hold without you? I am lost. You died today.
My physical senses must be off. The words I hear are foreign. They lack texture and the ability to paint a picture through their fluidity. The things I see are without shape. Color has lost its brightness. People appear muted and void of hue. There is an inability to communicate and speak clearly. You died today.
The road is coarser, even with appropriate tread. They no longer have direction. Landscapes no longer have horizons. The moon cannot rise, and the sun will never set again. You died today.
Plants no longer have roots and no way to thirst, hunger, or thrive. People are adult and ageless. Faces appear upside down.
Life is void of emotions. No love, no kindness, no depression, no anger. Is it not worse to be void of emotion than to be in anger? You died today.
No one will ever dance again. Lips of people will never touch. The touch between the two will never connect. Embraces have become non-existent. You died today.
I will continue to be in the physical reality. But when you died today, you took the best part of me. You took my heart.
Hope died today, and humanity has gone away, too.

On twenty four July of eighty five,
a Trailways bus I did ride,
the destination of Jackson [Basic Training],
a new life for me,

walking step by step,
running everywhere I go,
marching in unison,
a new life for me,

shining my shoes,
they sparkle in the light,
subject to inspection,
a new life for me,

carrying my weapon,
cleaning the firing pin,
to the range I go,
a new life for me,

riding cattle cars,
like a herd in summer heat,
shooting 300 meter targets,
a new life for me,

As I walk through the valley,
a evening prayer, Psalm’s 23: 4, I now pray,
resting before morning inspection,
a new life for me,

my journey, life direction a new,
physical training, much to do,
walking, running, marching,
is all a new life for me,

in 10 weeks,
a new bayonet I be,
soldier of fortune,
a new life for me!

Mother Mary Called to Me
by Amy Saxon Bosworth

One day you finally knew

House quiet dawn
Stopping to read the flyspecked curled paper pinned to the wall

You knew though the voices kept shouting bad advice

A fast shower then tugging clothes over your still damp body

Though the whole house began to tremble

In the gym locker room someone yelled get home fast

You knew what you had to do

Running on the icy parking lot
Skidding on the mountain roads

Though the wind pried

Door flung wide
You threw your body on your child
Taking the blows without flinching

And there was a new voice

Gathering quickly what you could
Clothes
Children
Your heart

And still Mary spoke to you

The poem ripped as it was pulled from the wall

As you strode deeper and deeper

800 miles of prayers and rage
Tears blurring the yellow lines
Bruises blossoming

Determined to do the only thing

Clutching the fragile paper in your fist
Beating the steering wheel

Determined to save the only life you could

And still she calls to me
In the early morning
Safe now she whispers

Cancer is never a word that anybody wants to hear.
And it comes with all sorts of baggage, like excessive worry and fear.
Nevertheless, for me, cancer served as a wake-up call.
Calling to my attention that I wasn’t resting at all.
Even though every cell was tired to its core,
Rarely did I ever let myself just rest and restore.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer,
I started searching for an answer.
Losing myself with each new issue,
Like surgeries, chemo, and scar tissue.

Now, I generally spend my days focused on myself,
Or working through all the books on my “to be read” shelf.
Through it all, I am pleased to say that I found my sense of self.

While I don’t have all the answers and all my thoughts still spin,
I know one thing for certain is that cancer will not win.
No, cancer will not win.

To my younger self,

A lot has passed since you finished high school. I hope you take this the best way possible, but how you planned adulthood didn’t work out. You haven’t done a single thing like you wanted. Emphasize “want” since you forgot about what you truly wanted at some point. But how? Why? Me? Make a mistake? Not having all the control of my life at 18? Sounds crazy! The idea of failing will make you lose your mind, but trust me, I’ll show you the way back. First, let’s refresh your memory.

Back in your last years of elementary school, you read your first book: Romeo and Juliet. It was a challenging version of the book for a kid, but in the confusion of it, you enjoyed it. Well, you loved it. “It was like a TV show in my head,” you told Dad when he picked you up from school. After that, it felt like love. You read and wrote every time you could, and participated in anything related to it—clear as water, everyone who knew you could see how much you enjoyed books. Your passion wasn’t questionable, but there was a problem: something didn’t feel right.

See, in the beginning, you didn’t care; at least you didn’t think about the opinion of others regarding a career in the humanities. It wasn’t negotiable then, you had to make your life around this somehow but you got a low punch from a big hero for you, Dad. And before you think something, yes, your dad was responsible for making fun of you when you answered his million-dollar question: “What are you going to do with your life?” But no, he’s not a villain —he’s human. He didn’t mean it, even if you think he did in his mind he thought you could take his career legacy as an option.
So, who did it? Who made you fail? I will hold your hand when I say this: it was you. And before you hurt yourself with hate, I want you to forgive yourself as well.

See, you moved to another country with the opportunity of starting fresh and even having dad far away, you never reconsidered the idea of going back to your dreams, the real ones, and it was so that you even find excuses, “English Is not my first language, I can’t be a writer!” and blindly choose again something different. You brainwashed yourself, forgot about your dreams, and decided to make your dad happy by choosing his career path, suffered in the process, and did something for four years that you didn’t like as much as you thought you would.

All that being said this comes from the future you, this hate is going to take you nowhere, and indeed it took you to a dark hole, dark enough to corrupt you, and reading this as a teenager makes everything more complicated than what it is already but trust me, it can be scary but life is an experience, and between us, who told you making it right the first time is possible? Don’t think everyone does it right without making any mistakes. After all, If you dig deep, the only way out is up, take this knowledge of life, and build yourself a rocket out of that black hole, up to space, to a new chapter.

This poem was cultivated one night as I redefined my pain

P-A-I-N I’m a four letta word that will F-U-C-K you…more than sex

P-A-I-N
I am most people’s best kept secret. I’m great at hiding behind a smile or a quick .. “I’m GOOD” 😊

Four letta words Dang they WORK my nerves

they can sit and wait for years …..fester into YOUR SOUL
Turn a good man or woman’s heart COLD

4 letta words …so short and BOLD

….so short and easy to spell but FUCK most four letta words only bring H-E-L-L

I rewrote pains definition

(P) lease (A)im (I)nner (N)ow
is the mission

I WAVE white flag … I’m not giving up But going
B-A-C-K to what M-A-D-E me that’s what Will S-A-V-E ….ME!…… My ROOT(s)

It’s Hey L-o-v-e And GOOD bye P A I N

It’s time to be BORN again….Live Love and do Life so WELL , any pain that I went through will just be a mere story that I tell …

It’s no mystery, redistribution of pain to power is black history

The duffle bag’s packed, am I ready?
Yes, running away, but I feel steady

Because I know…

I have to leave
I need to grieve
The choices I’ve made
And this life I lead

To find the why…

The why I do what I do
To cause the dark that cuts through
The deep within, don’t judge my sin
I couldn’t withstand the winds that blew

So, I run
To where the sea meets the sun
Worry, wait, anticipate
Will I be a chosen one?

Finally, comes the call
Hardhat on, hit that Union Hall
Hear my name, I’ve won this game
Off this mark, I cannot fall

Surrounded by the few with birthing hips
The only females on this ship
We come in close, as we all know
This is our chance, this is it

For we must rise to the tasks
That will test our spirits and our backs
We don’t know, how we will grow
As we tuck in to sleep on our racks

But there will be a few
Maybe six or so of this crew
Who will bond in their strong
What strength they had, who knew

Now leaving my life I felt the wonder
Meeting a chick roustabout, and a chick plumber
Another who ran a business, a success
And a fisherman chick painter, a world wanderer

This little group wearing steel toe boots
Did this disaster choose
To better their lives, with the cause that did rise
And make their money, make their move

For though it pained the heart
To see shores made so dark
For some this horror, this event
Would provide a new start

As it did me…

Together we’d build
On what that oil had spilled
We’d make our best out of this mess
And their resilience instilled

In me..
Inspiration, determination

With hammer and nails
We built offices and rails
Some washed boots and decks too
Some washed rocks when not at sail

I remember in a note one day
To one of the boss ladies I did say
Get me on the beach, out of ‘his’ reach
I did not come here to ‘play’

I was washing rocks the next shift….

Hauling one-hundred-pound pumps
One each end grabbed and humped
On oil slicked rocks, in wet boots and wet socks
Learning to climb and never jump

‘Cause that’s how you get hurt…

They looked out for me they did
Threw a birthday party for this kid
They took a chance, hired a guy to dance
On this secret, kept the lid

It was against All the rules….

They showed me women could be strong
While supporting me like my mom
And together we could weather
Any task or storm that came along

As I looked at all of them
To me, older women back then
I remember thinking, of when I was sinking
‘I want a life like these friends’

On the nights with no sleep
Due to all those dark memories
I’d put word to pen, again and again
Slowly healing injuries

They and the journalling I’d do
Would help me work through
See past me for what I could be
With that, them and work, how time flew

Before I knew it six months had passed…

I signed on for more work when off the water
My parents got to talk to their wayward daughter
Washed boats during the day, at night did play
But never did take it any farther

I had straightened out.. somewhat

The Summer came to an end
I would rarely again see my new friends
But I still hold them close in my heart
For showing me who I wanted to be in the end

Going home after that last hangout
With my artist friend who was all about
Living true to herself, that was her wealth
We planned later to meet but went different routes

To Mexico…

But that’s a story for a later day
For after the Oil Spill I found my way
It still took a minute to be full in it
But I soaked up heat and healing in the coming rays

Of sun…

Do you remember that time, when your mind was consumed?
When your spirit was constantly running, though your body was caged in a small room?
Wondering if you were doomed, the escape no time soon.
A whirlwind of emotions, your mind like a ship in a monsoon.
You took a deep breath then, but the lungs didn’t feel clear.
The walls closing in, as your eyes shut in fear.
Counting each breath, Seeking a place of hiding.
The rock-bottom reality, a life inside of solitary confinement.
Adjusting to absent sounds, locked away in Georgia Prison.
A number assigned to you, now a lost soul in the system.
The questions starting to form, like what’s the meaning of existence?
Why do you want to live? And will your will to live stay persistent?
Does destiny exist, or is this “plan” a thought of comfort?
Does anything really matter, when one day everything crumbles?
Part of you wanted to know, the other was screaming NO!
Time was like the ocean, and you were swimming against the flow.
But your heart said you must row, and your blood kept on pumping.
Reality left the mind stuck, as the brain hurt from thoughts constantly adjusting.
Your head began to ache, then your hands began to shake.
You wanted to go back to sleep, but your body said stay awake.
Insanity on the horizon and logic a distant light.
The battle of the mind is where the spirit starts to fight,
It was at this moment; a sudden realization took hold.
That the mind is what matters, if you were to climb out of this hole.
There are moments in life where it seems we make decisions.
When we decide to look within and embrace a deeper wisdom.
It’s that momentary genius, it’s the spark to start the fire.
Resilience is like a taste, that’s developed and acquired.
Do you remember that moment? The one that changed your path.
When a voice whispered still, answering questions asked.
The warmth in that feeling, a blanket of sudden heat.
On the floor but somehow floating, a tingling in your feet.
The conjunction of the chakras, providing a temporary relief.
Time was a distant concept, the present moment to hold and keep.
This voice a distant whisper, yet a close and constant friend.
From the beginning of this trip, it was with you until the end.
Though your mind began to drift, and the thoughts began to scatter.
A steady breath of clarity caused mirrored illusions to suddenly shatter.
This was just a moment or a chapter in life’s book.
Perceptions to be challenged if one would only care to look.
So, concentration became the key meditation a remedy.
The hum of silent nothingness mixed with a booming melody.
Your breath starting to climb a slow and sudden count.
As time began to pass the pressure began to mount.
If light is born in dark, then the abyss holds the spark.
Making sense of this conundrum was no walk in the park.
Yet for all that it was worth, doing nothing somehow worked.
When stripped of all materials, we then found our true worth.
Not in glitz, not in glamour, nor in simple prized possessions.
As a cup does hold water, our thoughts are mere reflections.
In this lesson there’s much to learn, there’s no room for second guessing.
The only way to find the answer, is to question why we question.

Dear ________,

Do you remember a while back? I think it was around Thanksgiving when you asked me to grow my hair back out. You said I looked cute with it and that I should have some hair to go with my graduation cap in the spring. I laughed and playfully rolled my eyes because most of my hair was shaved off at the time. There was only a small bit of “fluff” I could run my fingers through, so I didn’t really think you were serious, but I kept the thought in the back of my mind, skipping that month’s hair appointment…
wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere. It wasn’t a grand gesture…it didn’t have much thought…rather a lack of funds…yet as time went on and my hair grew…I couldn’t help but smile and think of you…
The next time I saw you it was Christmas time…we were deep into our battles of “I love you more” and “No, I’m doing dishes.” But you still made the sweet tea…extra sweet and always made sure I had a hot glass, my favorite way to drink it. Y’all even waited for me to hang the lights on the tree…. My favorite part of the holidays, decorating the tree with you, though I’m sorry I was a bit late. My exams took longer than I thought. At least the lights glowed bright during those nights. Only a few…
Short weeks past and along came the striking cold air… fierce to the skin…leaving me to freeze from head to toe clinging to a beanie as if it was my home…I decided to skip this hair appointment and just say no… (I was too cold…)
“You don’t have to. I don’t mind. Let me help you.” I would say every time the dishes piled high in the sink or dusting became a thing. But without fail you would smile and say that’s alright. Even when those Grinch lights hung far into the new year…Now I wonder if we got them down in time maybe things would be different…if we didn’t wait. I wish…
I knew what I could say to you. I wish I had the power to turn back time… before the doctor visits… the harsh treatments that tore you apart only hoping they would build you back up… I wish…
I noticed how you changed. The sudden loss of appetite. The lack of color in your face. The dark circles underneath your eyes in the green glow of the Grinch lights. You didn’t put up as much of a fight when I offered to help with dishes. I should’ve known then. You were sitting more…sleeping more…and I wish…
I could be there…from the first scan to this last one. To be there cheering you on through the good days… the bad days… and days when the sun seems to hide, and our pride remains only in your kind eyes.
But sadly, life has different plans.
Now I’m hundreds of miles away – guilt ridden- and only reading updates on Facebook…wondering if I should be afraid with every post, every call, every text I’m stuck waiting, debating whether it’s alright to call… Is it the right time? Should I wake you? Will this be okay? Will this get better? I call out to some unknown power, A deity who can come and make everything better…Yet the new…
Scans aren’t any better. Now you have new treatments I hear that give you a better chance against the raging pain in your chest…. though is it true? Doing this will make your fear appear? Will you lose more this time?
Remember my promise from last thanksgiving? Well, I never made it to a single appointment…and it’s already passed my shoulders…even now I can picture your smile at the thought…But I wanted to ask you, with Christmas a few short months away and my love for short hair anyways…would you let me give you at least a piece of normalcy? Would you let me give back something that beast in your chest took away? I’ll…
Gladly grow my hair out for you. So please don’t cry and as time goes on and my hair grows out, I’ll always smile and think of you with every glance toward a mirror.
I love you,

Headline:
People say leaving is the hardest part. It’s not. But it is a very terrifying first step. In the middle of the night, I took my three kids and fled to escape the hell that had become our home. This is my experience that night. This is my first step.

I Watch Them Sleep
Inside me roars the sort of storm that brings about terror.
My spirit is shrunken, sunken, cowering, and endangered.
But outside I appear calm, like the quiet, cool night around us.
No visible, telling signs of distress, aside from my trembling hands.

My respiration was shallow; so tensely forced and controlled
Intentionally labored to stop my chest from heaving
Total silence, despite the loud heartbeat pulsating in my ears
I must remain stoic; they can’t know I’m terrified of leaving.

The three pairs of little feet in a row lined up right behind me
Are bouncing atop boxes and bags chaotically piled on the floorboard
I can’t let them know the truth; that they are in a nightmare wide-awake
I already fear any sense of safety will not be granted to them anymore.

Holding my breath, statue stiff, I need to get out of the driveway.
And brief relief does brush past me, when pulling into the street.
A freedom short-lived, as my mind hastily races in a circular motion
Where are we going? What am I doing? The plan stopped at, we leave

Under the protection of the dark, secretly we move with no destination
Trusting, innocent, defenseless littles fully dependent on my sanity
The weight of that is not lost on me. Its reality is hopelessly crushing.
But this perilous escape is for them and could not be done politely.

The soft chatter continues, as I pull into a big, empty parking lot.
I must get myself together and pull out at least one useful thought.
They will be restless soon, and I need to make this appear normal.
Think! What is the next right thing? I must move. It is too late to stop.

No chance for an answer, as I am heaved back in the moment by a voice.
A soft, small voice behind me finally asks, “Mommy are you ok?”.
And just like, I remember who I am to them. Head up, shoulders back
Reaching back to try to provide uncertain reassurance and to myself pray

Unlike other times, I feel many little fingers grab back, so tightly.
Turning around, I see all our hands are a messy constellation of love.
My heart starts to glow. It’s now burning; strength quickly returning
My bruised-up hands no longer shake; I place them on the wheel.

I put on a song. Try to sing along and get us to a safe place for tonight.
Pushing a cumbersome cart heavy with piles of stuff; a toddler on top.
I look like a drunken clown as the exhaustion is almost incapacitating
Hitting anything stationary; picking up loose items as even more drop

Finally, ungracefully we pass through the threshold of our temporary home
There is this glaring oddity. The littles seem so carefree after so much pain.
I realize then, that the absence of fear allows the once joyful child to return.
They lay down without resistance, unlike other nights, another change

I dig through the mess for a book to read before bed, as was our routine.
In what seems like minutes, all three heads are down and sleeping deeply.
The first easy breath comes; though I know the worst is yet to come
I am no longer powerless. Finally, at peace, I sit; I sit and watch them sleep.

Everyone says you are evil,
That you tried to ruin my life.
What they forget is that my life
Is not ruined, because I have
Never known it without you.

Praying for your absence
Seems odd, even unnatural
To me. You have become an
Integral part of my life;
Every decision I have made
Involved you. To pray that
You would leave overnight
Would leave me desolate, but

I suppose I have other
Places to go; decisions to make:
Neither of which involve you.

Learning to live without you
Is an undertaking I had
Always wanted, but now that
It is a reality, I am not sure
Where to begin, or how to
Begin. People say that this
Is the “beauty of it all,” and
Perhaps that is true,
But I am beginning with something new.

Expectations placed upon me now
Cannot be met overnight. Maybe you know this,
So to protect me from
Impending failure, you continue to
Reside within my mind.

Perhaps I do not need your misguided
Protection. The principles you have instilled
Within me have caused more
Hinderances than they have relief.

Still, I cannot help but pity your
Tireless efforts. I can see now that
You were tired, and I was ungrateful.
Or maybe you were not trying to protect
Me at all. It could very well be that
You were trapped, trying to escape, but

You never knew how.

One Day in December

Letters can express so many feelings—love, joy, sadness, fear, longing, hope. This is about a terrible letter; one of the hardest I’ve ever written.

We met at a dance. He was almost two years older, and we danced all night. I fell in love, as best as a fifteen-year-old can.

The only daughter of four rowdy brothers, I wasn’t allowed to date until I turned sixteen. But the next day when John knocked on the door and introduced himself, my skeptical, conservative parents were enormously impressed. It didn’t hurt that he was the only child of an only child and stood to inherit a comfortable amount of money.

His parents, who needed a daughter-in-law who would fit in socially, readily gave their stamp of approval.

For the next two years my life was a whirlwind of dances, movies, proms, church, dinners, picnics, fishing, traveling. He bought me flowers and expensive gifts for no special occasion. He presented me with an engagement ring with a diamond from his grandmother’s wedding ring.

My future was scripted—after graduation, I’d be a stay-at-home mom with several children, hosting card parties and play dates, eventually caring for our parents when they grew old.

But on December 1, 1969, the trajectory of my life changed, although I didn’t realize it at the time. That Monday night, the entire nation was glued to their television sets watching representatives of the Selective Service System reach into a glass jar 366 times and pull out a pellet containing a slip of paper that would match a date in the calendar year. This would determine the order of conscription into the U.S. Army.

The fifth date pulled was October 18—John’s birthday.

He would be going to Viet Nam.

February 1, he left for boot camp. I graduated high school in May.
It was understood—but unspoken—that I would continue to live with my parents while planning our wedding that was to happen upon his return from Viet Nam. He wanted to be standing at the front of the church in his dress uniform as I came down the aisle. My father would hand me over to John, then step away.

But the day after he left, it was though someone opened all the doors and windows—everything seemed lighter, airier. I had the freedom to make my own decisions, time to myself and time to hang out with friends. It was a heady experience and every morning I woke excited to start a new day. I graduated, got a job, and then, in a rush of independence, an apartment. John wrote that he did not approve of me living alone.

I found it oddly joyful to pay my own bills, balance a checkbook, buy groceries. I taught myself to cook and reveled in the quiet aloneness.

I went to parties and made poor decisions. When my friends left for college, I ached to join them.

I dated other men.

And soon, I started getting a lot of pressure to help plan the wedding. My mother booked the church. His mother booked the Country Club. My fiancé wrote, begging for details—what did the invitations look like? How many bridesmaids? Flowers, food, honeymoon, music—a dizzying number of details.

***

One evening, alone in my apartment, I sat with pen and paper and did a horrible thing, but also the only thing I could do—
“Dear John,”

***

My mother was devastated. His parents were outraged.

I broke his heart. Of course, I did.

A year later I stepped into my first class at the university, thrilled, terrified. Three years later I graduated.

I eventually married and eventually had children.

I’d like to say I didn’t look back, but I did, mentally wishing him every happiness. He was a good person. He just wasn’t right for me.

Had it not been for December 1, 1969, I doubt that I would be the woman I am today—strong, resilient, purposeful, and, most importantly, free to make my own decisions.