Hardship | pictured words

THEY

They come
from distant lands,
escaping war,
famine, natural disaster,
unlivable conditions, persecution,
economic instability, etc.

They arrive
carrying whatever they can.
Perhaps a photo or two.
A key to a house
that may no longer exist.
Only the clothes on their backs.

One very dear Syrian friend had to leave
suddenly. Flee.
Her family,
in the middle of a meal,
left pots and plates of food
years ago.

Ukrainian friends we now consider family
arrived with one school-type backpack
for their family of four.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Some aren’t even that lucky.

Dowla chose one item to bring:
A wooden pole, balanced on her shoulders,
with which to carry
her six children
when they tired of the 10-day walk from Sudan
to a refugee camp in South Sudan.

Aboubacar fled Mali on a donkey cart
with his wife and two children.
The one item he chose to bring?
His goat.
“The goat brings me hope, joy, and a sense
that things can change for the better.”

After dealing with several months of air raids,
Magboola and her three children finally left Sudan
the night soldiers came and opened fire.
The most important item she chose to carry:
a small cooking pot.
It could be easily carried,
and used to feed her children.

102-year-old Omar is blind.
His item of choice was his lati
(his walking stick).
“If I hadn’t had my lati,
I would have crawled to Bangladesh.”
The situation in the village he loved,
yet had to flee,
was dire.
The journey,
unimaginably hard.
A quote I relish from him is this:
“If you laugh, others will laugh with you.
And if you stop laughing, you will die.”

Elizabeth fled war in Angola.
52 years later, she still struggles
with the feeling of not having a real home.
The one item she still has with her
is her Bible.
“In this world, bad things happen,
but in the Bible you can find words which help you.”

The stories
are endless
unimaginable
heartbreaking
staggering
awe-inspiring.

The people
are strong
courageous
thankful
giving
hopeful,
in spite of it all.

It is my honor and great blessing
to look into the eyes of those
I am privileged to personally know.
To hear their stories.
See their smiling eyes.
Feel their arms around me.
Their kisses on my cheeks.
To taste their food.
Receive their time
and their love.

THEY
are life-enriching.

(Stories of those I don’t personally know are from UNHRC. The photo I chose is from Pexels.com.)

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January 15, 2023

VISIT WITH GRANDPA

Photo by Francisco Fernu00e1ndez on Pexels.com

Visit with Grandpa

Walking up my street,
I see a man walking toward me.
Aww. Looks like Grandpa, I think,
knowing it couldn’t be.
As we get closer, there is no mistaking.
Yes, it is Grandpa.
I don’t want to wake up, and miss out.
He approaches me.
“Grandpa!”
He gives me a hug.
As is nearly always the case when I dream
of the dead, all senses are engaged.

“Grandpa, what are you doing here?”
He says he came to tell me not to worry about
circumstances that were consuming me.
Everything would be just fine.

Then he says, “You know I can’t stay.”
Yes, of course.
I just don’t want to lose him again
so quickly.

“But I will come back,” he assures.
He hugs me again, and,
just that quick,
he’s gone.

My long, detailed dream continues.
It seems to last a good portion of the night.

Suddenly, there he is again.
This time, he doesn’t speak.
His silence stills me,
while it declares a grand reassurance.

I wake from the dream,
recognizing it hadn’t been merely a dream.

And I smile.
When he said he would return,
I hadn’t realized he meant
that quickly.
That night.
That dream.

September 20, 2020

Two Sisters in Three Chapters

Chapter 1. Rain.

The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.

Chapter 2. Wombs.

Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.

Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.

Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.

Chapter 3. Lost and Found.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.