Young Writers Society

... no comments, please. ^^

And more than anything, I want to hear your voice
And hear you speak to me.

Today when you walked up to bed and I told you that I loved you
You turned my way and said I ov ou oo, and I knew what you meant and I rejoiced in your love
Given freely with a smile
And yet, it's been four long years and that is the first time
You've said those words to me.
And I can't help but think how long those words have taken
And mourn their absence.

And I know you love me for you've
Cried in my arms and curled your body in my lap.
I’ve nursed you and loved you and rocked you and covered you in kisses and you've
Loved me in return in your own little ways
With your smiles and hugs and your trust.

But I yearn for your voice and I wish I can
Wave a wand and loosen your tongue so that we can laugh together and you can tell me
About anything you want.

But for now, it's time to wait and watch
And maybe someday soon
You will say that you love me again
And my heart will fill up with joy.

It's a tragedy a first time but a
Comedy the next and how can an ER visit
Be so damned embarrassing?
Wheeled into the trauma room
and I can't help but notice the
Printed labels for boxes of intubation and
Cardiac failure and here I am, a failure
But not that type...

And there are old people on beds in the hallways
Bitching and moaning about the room they desire
Instead of the cold hallway. They want sandwiches
and hot blankets and a computer to play spider solitaire.

And I see them glare at me when I'm wheeled
Into my trauma room, a young woman in their eyes,
I feel their envy as the
curtain to my trauma room swishes shut.
They demand sandwiches but
The doctor refuses to give me water
Even when I beg.

And yet, bleeding out and delirious,
I cannot help but feel guilty
To have my very own trauma room
In which I can be traumatized alone
When I hear complaints outside
From people who envy me.

Inside the womb, babies are quiet.
But outside, the first sounds are cries --
There are cries of hunger, cries for food,
cries of wanting to be held...

And what babies want most of all is to
Feel safe and loved and tended --
That is all, and that is why they cry.

And I sometimes wonder,
In this culture where we scorn
the cries of the infants
That we have forgotten how to listen to
The crying in our hearts.

Sometimes I wonder if we should
learn sign language together.
A language of miming and gesticulating and
everything that you do already anyway
but with more purpose.

I see how hard you try to speak to me --
If I can't understand your clipped words,
you play charades and mimic your words.
I'll ask, "What color is it?" and you'll bring a
brown cow to me, presenting it to me like
a wise man presenting gold to the Christ Child.

And why shouldn't you present it as a treasure?
For it is a treasure! It is your words, your meanings --
your voice. The cow is brown and the color is brown
and the word you want to say is brown but
the word comes out as "ow" and it makes me wonder
why words can sometimes be so painful.

The other night I woke up with you in my arms
babbling deliriously in your babyish way
from the fever that struck you hard.
Not even eight months old and already you are
seeking that connection through sounds
and trying to talk and murmur through your fever.

And I loved hearing you talk, but I was glad when
your temperature came back down and you
cuddled back into my arms and
finally fell asleep.

You can lay on the floor and cry alone --
But what if I lay alongside you
Splayed out like a defeated giant
next to your tiny body?

Would you laugh when you saw me
and climb along my body, as if it were
a vine to scamper up, or would you
still cry in frustration because you
felled the giant without a single word?

Do not be afraid to cry out our names --
We are big and grumpy and tired,
lumbering around like trees with new legs.
But at the sound of our names, we
snap to attention and look down at your way,
ready to listen and solve the next big problem.

And even if the name doesn't come out right --
if Mommy sounds like Omni and
Daddy sounds like Adni --
we are listening still and can hear your voice
aloft on the wind.

Here is the time we wait two hours
in silent prayer
hoping against all hopes that
the ER remains a distant place
where other people (but not me)
can go to in
the dead of night.

Today, a cold stole my voice.
It hid it somewhere deep within
the crevices of the clouds
so that the only sounds I could make was a
whistling of the wind.

And my children called out to me
asking me their questions and I
could not answer anything except with a
nod or a smile or a shake of the head
unable to answer the constant question:

why

Do not give me your pity.
I don't want it. I don't want to be seen as
someone too weak to stand against nature
and cry out against it.

For grief is a funny thing and
soon perhaps will be the time to weep
but for now, let's stand against the wind
and cry out against God.

5 red blood transfusions
4 hospital rooms
3 IV injection sites
2 blood plasma transfusions
1 blood coagulation transfusions

... and I am still alive.

There are many things that I would like to write about
were it not for my heart being broken.
There are feelings twisted together like spaghetti and
while I have the fork poised over the noodles
I am terrified to twirl it.

Because I know if I stab the noodles
and wrap them around my fork
then they shall untangle themselves
and I will be forced to taste the bitterness
and weep.

"You don't have to be alone"
is one of those lies that everyone tells you.
How can I help but to be alone?
Will you hold my hand and walk with me
on this journey of anguish?
Or will you watch from afar with concerned faces
while I stumble through?

Make no mistake: I will get through this mess.
Already, I have leapt and found my footing
even though I've sprained all my toes.
And I am not entirely alone, there are people
Hanging up safety nets and handing me ropes
to get out of this trap. And yet...

To face death is to be alone.

And I am still here, alone, trying to figure out
where I am and who I am and why I am still here.
And though I've grabbed onto the ropes,
and wait as you pull me to safety
I feel the sway of taut rope as the wind
whistles through and reminds me
of oblivion.

I hate how everyone is sadder than me --
I'll blurt out the words, too shocked to
know what I'm saying and instantly
their faces will scrunch up in sympathy.

"I'm so sorry."

And I'll stare at them and feel bad
because they look sorrier than I feel
and I'll apologize for making them sad
which only makes them sadder still.

And I am frustrated: am I not still alive?
Can we not rejoice in the fact that my
heart is full of blood and pumps out to my body
so that I can stumble and smile and crack stupid jokes?

And I know that I'm broken and I know
what I've lost and I know I am empty
and still reeling from uncounted losses and yet
there is gratitude budding on my lips --

For I am still alive.