Remember that story you loved? It was yours

The first time you crumpled and chucked a corner of your life it landed on the floorboards that noticed when your shoe size changed. I’ve watched you shout sentences out of your pockets, the chapters you wished away tucked under boxes in the attic

You forgot that I write sonnets even in the moments when you wish the words were different

Baked into the silence of an unchanging commute, between the lines of a receipt, stolen from the heaviness of a light beer
To praise the job of your sigh and the metrics of your laugh. The chip laid on your shoulder is self-inflicted and superficial, unfairly designing the angle of your flinch when smoothing the lines of your blazer
I’m aware that each time knowledge shakes your hand, more hesitation steals its way beneath the confidence of your brow

But I hear the words, the paragraphs, and the footnotes

They’re the flush in your cheeks when you thought you found a lifetime of pinky promises. The sound of change you accidentally drop and the way your hands hug your knees in the shower
Plot points noiselessly idle in the etchings of your sheets, in the breath of your smile and the wanting of your pace.
I listen to your worry in the unchecked list hidden by the stack of papers settled on your dresser

Yet, even when you temporize, I continue to cite moments

So that you remember how hospital beds and birthday cards and feeling last in line could not separate you from your darkest strand of hair
The purple of the raised scars underneath your shirt are smooth despite their nature, like how strokes across your lips make no mention of the pain they’ve caused
I’m in the room when you lose time contemplating time lost

Do you notice how I number the pages?

I hold a ruler to the glow of your irises when you hum under the little dipper. I’m there, studying the value of each thank you.
Integers of convention straighten your spine like the phone calls you miss, and you dither under the pressure of opportunity
I’m a witness to the metronome of your bedside lamp and how it keeps you afraid of the dark

The next sentence is always blank until it isn’t

Someday soon the gnawing of your aspirations will outweigh the chapters you believed weren’t worthwhile
Intermittent joys will steady your footsteps in new spaces,  but burn crescendos brighter than evening sunsets when you realize great things don’t always come in threes
I’ll remind you that the relief of finding will hold you like a lover when you thought there was no chair meant for you

And you’ll write for you, for me, too
The story you love, the story yet to be

For the new me, may never be found; because you see, the idea is unsound.

What is newness? Is it true?

I find that I am seldom new; and often, always, built by two.

There’s who I was, and who I will be … then somewhere in between, there’s me.

Propelling forward, pulled by past, knowing resolutions will not last, if I don’t love the parts of me, that are the now, and the infinity. ~ a poem by ~ 𓌂 © Danielle, #DAMCL ™, @DsEnlightenedEdits ™®🌈 𓌂©𝐰𝐰𝐰.𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐂𝐋𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬.𝐜𝐨𝐦 ™®𓋹;
© January, 2022.

As the new year arrives
I’m grateful that in 2021, I’ve taken tremendous strives

The courage & belief in self really blossomed this year
After years of my mind being controlled by fear

I’m really excited for 2022
Hopefully, we’ll all make it through

There are so many things I want to do
Like continuing to grow as a writer & go back to school, just to name a few

I embrace the surprises that will come along the way
It also helps to have fun & play.

So, I’m ready for the great year, that’ll be 2022
I hope you are too.

To the world,

This is my story about perseverance, a perseverance I didn’t know I had in me. But as with many things in life, sometimes you find things out the hard way.

As I got older, and my parents got older, I knew that there would be a day when the roles would be reversed, and I’d be the one taking care of them. When my mom passed in 2004, I made a pact to myself that I’d never let my dad feel alone. 48 years with mom, I never wanted him feeling like he was by himself.

As dad got into his 80’s, things got tougher. For him of course. And for me. He developed Parkinson’s and dementia in his mid 80s. Simple things-things that we take for granted like speaking clearly, remembering what he had for lunch, sitting down from the toilet all became a challenge. Again, for him. And for me. My brother and sister had moved to California, so it was just us. We always said, “We’re a team.”

James with his dad.

The last few months of him living in his condo were very challenging for us. For me, it was gut wrenching to walk in every day and not be sure what kind of state he was in. Things we always enjoyed became less fun-like dinner, watching TV, talking sports. It became more of just trying to get to the end of the day-more survival than living. The idea that I could see my dad have Parkinson’s-induced hallucinations, and come to his condo or the nursing home and meet the paramedics after another fall and still be OK after is something I wasn’t sure of.  But all that happened. Several times. I know he was the one going through it all. But because I was with him every possible step of the way, I went through it too.  I’m proud of how much I cared for my dad. It is one thing I will never regret.

There is no manual for what to say to a parent when they see a cowboy on a blank TV screen, what to say when you say your dad “playing” some sort of card game or rolling dice while he’s in his wheelchair, to try not to be sad when his golf buddies would come visit and be sad because their friend wasn’t his 100% self. I persevered the years before that because if going to Kohl’s five times just to get a pair of pants that dad liked was necessary, then so be it. I persevered by learning how to have the same conversations every day, because it’s what Dad knew and was familiar with.  But mainly I persevered because I had to. For Dad. And because he taught me how to for all of his 89 years, up until the very end. I learned from the best how to persevere through the worst. The worst meaning seeing my strong dad be maybe not so strong.  And to try to keep a positive face as much as possible, even when watching my dad struggle was tearing me up inside. Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought I could see all these things and still be OK. He was my hero. My Little League coach. My buddy to yell at the TV during Browns and Cavs games with.  But again, I did it. Because he did it. And we were the best team ever. Right Dad?  “Right”.

Thanks Dad,