Beyond Heaven

I was never really heaven’s favorite child.
I failed
to prove my obedience
by asking “why” and “what if”.

And heaven offers no salvation for dreamers
unless they stay cloaked with its holy hues.

All I have left to show
for my dreams are lost love’s ashes
clinging to the souls of every one of my failures,
who in turn are ground into oblivion.

I never thought anyone
would find comfort or inspiration in my stories,
taking cautionary tales as aspirations,
insisting there’s gold beneath the grime.
I didn’t expect you, my daughter,

knowing the selectiveness of heavenly mercy,
would demand that heaven acknowledge you
and start living up to its ideals.

How can a parent ask their child
to be less than what they are,
to shrink their spirit
when they are finally ready
to shout truth in the face
of reactionary angels?

I may repent
an innumerable host of stupid decisions
but I refuse to renounce the greatest miracle
my disobedience has birthed.

 

Song Choice: More Than Anything from Hazbin Hotel

Liner Notes for this Groove: I've been sick with COVID for the last week and a half. In between hacking up my lungs I got a chance to binge the musical series, Hazbin Hotel. While I enjoyed it, it's definitely not for everyone. The pacing gets a little crazy and there's a song/ scene that makes Fantine's I Dreamed a Dream from Le Miz seem like Somewhere Over the Rainbow (they were not kidding around with the content warning for episode four). But I am a sucker for musicals and characters that are idealistic dorks, like Lucifer and Charlie.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

New Year's Wish

My wish for you—

Hope as sharp as lion’s teeth
devouring all the concrete that buries you
until you can

unfurl yourself under the encouraging sun
and make your own wishes
fly far and wide.

Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash

Song Choice: Hey Jude covered by Infinity Song

Liner Notes for this Groove: This song is linked to Poets and Storyteller United's Friday Writing Prompt, Fascinating. I'm not sure how obscure this fact really is, but it always tickled me that the word dandelion originates from Latin meaning "lion's teeth".

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Life Commences

Pomp and circumstance won’t feed
a spirit raised to understand
that celebration can’t be experienced as mere ceremony,

especially when existence provides
a multitude of ways to be joyful.

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

Song Choice: These Are the Days by 10,000 Maniacs

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem is linked to the Friday Writings post at Poets and Storytellers United. Congratulations are in order for my Darling Eldest who graduated college just last week. While he can be sentimental, he's not one for tradition for tradition's sake. So he opted not to attend the ceremony. Instead, we'll celebrate once my husband shakes off the last dredges of the coronavirus.  

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Prince of Rabbits

You have a thousand enemies, little rabbit,
all made the moment you came out
from beneath the safety of the earth.

How could you have known
about old, innocent blood on a far-away field

when your only thoughts
were of playtime in the sweet grass
as lush and green as your eyes could see?

The moon has seen
multitudes of pitiless horrors
play themselves out.

But it has also seen triumphs
and unforeseen beauty.

Feed yourself on those stories,
little rabbit, play to your strengths.

Keep a kind heart,
cultivate some cunning,

so that you may run with other rabbits
aware of, and delighted in, their power.

Make and find new stories,
Little Prince Unafraid
to Rebirth and Rename Himself—

stories of survival and joy to share
on cold, dark nights.

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

Song Choice: Baby Mine covered by Bonnie Raitt and Was not Was

Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings Prompt. Today is also my Darling Youngest's birthday. Ren is 19 and I am proud of the young man he is becoming.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Bless

I bless every knuckle
bloody from beating the walls
caging me,

and every splinter earned
in repurposing wreckage,
so that my children might never know

this hollowness of being
unaware of yourself in the dark.

Photo by Sophie Louisnard on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Dear Theodosia from Hamilton

Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Forward Movement.

Two Unexpected

Two unexpected
seeds dropped.

One on a winter evening
when it had the indecency
to rain instead of snow.

One on a summer afternoon
when sunshine pulled out
everyone from inside the house.

Why go out
and expose flesh
to numbing rain

for just dinner and a movie
when there’s a perfectly good bed?

Why stay inside
a stifling room
when a breeze from the bay
feels so good on skin 

on skin in the shade?

One winter day. One summer day.
The company was more than fine.

Perhaps we should have been a little less surprised
at how life (and love) grows in welcoming spaces
despite the whims of the weather.

Photo by Bastien Jaillot on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Closing Time covered by Wendy Child

Liner Notes For This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets United, Sudden Moments.

Keeping it Real Curly

For the longest time, I was the only one in my family with thick, curly locks. Then I had my Darling Eldest. We didn’t know how much his hair was like mine at first. He got a lot of regular haircut throughout his youth. But when he went away to college and haircuts weren’t as high of a priority as say anime club, we all finally got a look at what his mane would do when left to its own devices.

He had been home for a bit because of the pandemic before he finally approached me. He likes keeping his hair long but had been resisting the idea that maintenance was needed. Could I help?

Well during the pandemic I’ve been hard-core upgrading my curl game (it was a reliable bit of self-care that always made me feel better). I was delighted to share techniques I learned, product suggestions, while being sure to let him know the ball was in his court as to how he chooses to deal with it. I have to say, his satin lined hat is cooler than my cheesy sleeping bonnet, but both of them protect our curls.

There was one morning when we were wearing our respective caps when my husband made the observation that not only do we look alike, we both act in very similar ways when we get angry or frustrated. He looked at me in horror and said, “I think I’m turning into you.” I told him not to worry unless he suddenly got interested in planners and picking out cute stickers to go in it.

Of course considering we both just got excited over recognizing a familiar voice actor in an anime series, I’ll be sure add an extra pack of cool-looking, anime-inspired stickers to my next stationary order. Just in case.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Hair from the musical of the same name.

This post was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings Prompt: What You Resist, You Become.

When Winter Comes

Some wounds are deep
enough to bleed through generations—
aches handed down as heirlooms
listed on wills with invisible ink.

It couldn’t be helped. Then 

silence was a virtue
(and here everyone believes that
please scream inside your heart
is just so 2020).


There’s an evolutionary advantage
to all the wild ‘what ifs’
buzzing like discomforted wasps
looking for a target.

At least that’s what I heard on NPR once.


If I have time for NPR,
I have time to consider
all the seasons
the wounds have lingered—

all the thorns in the spring,
all the hollows of the summer,
all the breaking of the autumn—

and what I’m going to do about them.

I hope
that by the time winter comes
some wounds have time to close

and I will know that I have done my part
to pass on what it means
to walk away from legacies
we don’t want to hold on to anymore.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Song Choice: Teach Your Children Well by Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

This poem was created in response to the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Weekly Scribblings #40: Walk Away.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

For the Honor of House Driks

According to their religion, my kids became adults at their B’nai Mitzvah. But to truly be seen as an adult around here, a child must make a meal. Darling Youngest has been gleefully diving into baking as well as cooking during the pandemic. The Darling Eldest however has managed to shirk off anything more involved than boxed mac n’ cheese—at least until now.

The last week has seen some pretty rough times for a bunch of my friends. Their stories are not mine to tell, but when the going gets tough, the Drikses get cooking. Darling Eldest was feeling particularly frustrated by his inability to help, so my husband suggested that he cook a meal for a family. Not just any meal, but the legendary Driks meatloaf, which has been passed down on my husband’s side for a couple of generations and is one of the most anticipated meals by several families when we vacation together.

In some ways, this was a big treat for my husband. As much as he loves to cook, he loves it even more when someone is in the kitchen cooking with him. And getting to teach one of his offspring a meal that has a place in family lore is a double bonus.

I think Darling Eldest might have been a wee bit intimidated by both the manic gleam in my husband's eye and taking on such a well-loved family meal. But after getting some grumbling out of the way, he showed up in the kitchen, ready to learn. 

As with creating the perfect cast, to make the perfect meatloaf, you've got to get loose.

(Fun fact, Darling Eldest's name was partially inspired by this movie.)

To (only) his shock, it came out quite well. He was so impressed with himself that he made a second meatloaf the very next day, this one to keep for ourselves as we celebrated his second by-line. I don’t think he’s in a hurry to tackle the equally as legendary Driks challah bread any time soon. But in this time of Covid when things to celebrate are far and few between, at least my Darling Eldest now knows he can put together some tasty comfort food both for himself and anyone who could use a bit of comforting.

Song Choice: What else, but Eye to Eye from the Goofy Movie

This blog post was created as a response to the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Writing About Food.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Nevertheless

Dear descendant,

Right now your ancestress

is reminded of the time

she was warned

about a super storm bearing down.

Everyone else made jokes

right up until they saw

the eerie green sky,

that turned skeptics into believers

in a baptism by hurricane.

Is the sun shining while you are reading this?

Are you sharing hugs

with all the folks you love

free from the feeling

that your touch has doomed them.

I hope so.

Sometimes it seems

that the time you live in

is more real to me than mine

because I can imagine

some sort of normal existing there

that isn’t possible here.

In this time, my time,

there’s ugly trying to choke

the bright out of anything

that wants to shine.

Your ancestress,

she was given an explanation

for this vacuum of leadership.

Some had their reasons you see

to keep dancing with all the devils

that brought them to the party.

But there is more than arrogance and disdain

flowering in this time too, dear descendant.

There were folks all lined up

at a local grocery store

waiting their turns to shop

their friendliness still able to reach

their fellow shoppers and the store employees

from six feet away.

There’s folks checking in their neighbors.

People who bring in other people’s kids from the cold.

There are people sharing their talents

over electronic campfires,

patching over the frayed bits of life

with colorful fabric of their own weaving.

There’s people sharing what they have

to make things last

just a little longer, until this is over.

Which makes me hope

there will be a tomorrow

when this ancestress can hand off her letter

to a future generation

who will understand what she means

when she says love is what saved us in the end,

despite devils and skeptics.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

Pandora by John William Waterhouse

Song Choice: Dear Winter by AJR

This piece was created for Weekly Scribblings #12 at Poets and Storytellers United, Nevertheless, She Persisted. You can hear me read this poem out loud on my Instagram and Facebook pages.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Who Makes Friends During a Quarantine?

When my kids were small, our family had a joke that if we had plans to go anywhere, Darling Eldest needed two weeks advance notice and Darling Youngest should only be told once they were buckled in the car seat. Darling Youngest has always been super social, wanting to be in the thick of every gathering and wanting to be there NOW. We used to call them “The Mayor” based on how easily they made friends and end up knowing pretty much everyone wherever we went.

Darling Youngest at the prom, just a couple of weeks ago.

As you may have guessed, the last couple of weeks have been tough on them. It wasn’t too bad when school got cancelled one day, but when it turned into a week (and now at least two weeks) they weren’t amused. Then the plans for a big birthday sleepover had to be scrapped. The local malls closed. The clubs that meant so much to them canceled events. No more all-day Dungeons & Dragons sessions at friends’ homes. No more wandering around town.

There were tears. And a bit of screaming.

Although my introverted self could not relate, I still felt bad for them. I spent a little time trying to find fun things to do. I tracked down some neat concerts, virtual museum visits, and performances from theater kids after they retreated to their bedroom in a huff. But when they came out again, they were quite excited.

One of their favorite influencers on Instagram, Jessi Paege, started encouraging her followers to start group chats to support each other. Darling Youngest made several new friends right away and has been happily texting them back and forth since then.

At first I thought, “Leave it to the Mayor to come out of this with a bunch of new friends.” And while that’s true, I thought of all the cool things I found researching and how wonderfully adaptive people are in finding creative ways to connect. I don’t know how long this will last, or how bad it will end up being. But I know that ways exist to keep connecting, keep living, in spite of it all, and that is a comfort.

Who makes friends during a quarantine? Anyone who'd like to.

Song Choice: This video of folks in Italy singing together

This post was created for Poets and Storytellers United’s Weekly Scribblings: Hypophora and All That. Come and connect with us there. Also, you may want to keep an eye on my Facebook page and Instagram. I might try my hand at video readings to do my part at making this period of time feel a little bit less isolating. How are you keeping yourself occupied? Tell me all about it in the comments.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Week Off

This last week was extra crazy because of my darling youngest's wisdom tooth surgery (well, teeth actual, all 4 wisdom teeth + one molar) and general holiday tomfoolery. I'll be doing BAwR again next week. For now I'll be sleeping off the turkey coma.

Zzzzzzz...

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Emilys Twinkle: Blogging Around with Rommy, Week 34

Emily Dickinson wrote tons of wee bits of poetry on the backs on envelopes 

and other assorted scraps of paper. A bookful have been collected in

Gorgeous Nothings: Emily Dickinson's Envelope Poems.

Atoms need no excuse
to rock out and pulse
at the heart of their star.

Let Emilys twinkle
and weave groovy
spectrums of hues
to preside over
ever expanding universes
with no limits.


This poem was created for Sanaa's Wild Fridays at Poets United. The unfinished poem I chose to respond to was “Excuse | Emily and | her Atoms | The North | Star is | of small | fabric | but it | implies | much | presides | yet.” by Emily Dickinson. It's also linked to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, Just One Word: Groovy.

Liner Notes for This Groove:

It is a singularly daft person who even partway believes their four year old when they insist they will always want a bright pink bedroom. OK, perhaps I didn't entirely believe my youngest child's declaration of undying love for pink, but I did throw myself into making it super frilly, complete with light and dark pink stripes of paint, little rose door pulls on crackle-painted closet doors (pink underneath!), with a canopy netting festooned with flowers.

So yeah, twelve years later Rose prefers to be called Rozz. And can I please move out the Tinkerbell stuff to make room for Stranger Things, Green Day, and Captain Marvel? Of course it makes sense that the mom in this scenario is going to be a little more nostalgic (and less mortified) than her kid would be.

But I got to thinking it might be a little more than that. So I took Charles Dicken's words to heart (“My dear if you could give me a cup of tea to clear my muddle of a head I should better understand your affairs.”) and after many conversations with Rozz over gallons of tea, I figured out something. Creating the perfect be-frilled bedroom was something I always wanted as a kid. 

I had a boring bunk bed I shared with my little brother in a very sensible room. It gives me a giggle to think that room might be Rozz's dream room (complete with it's now "classic" rock and pop posters). Teen Rozz deserves a perfect place just as much as pre-school Rose did. And none of that has a thing to do with grown-up Rommy's preferences.

OK, as an adult I absolutely do not want a pink on pink striped bedroom. But I'm getting more comfortable in indulging myself in frillier personal things (and gothier things...my upbringing wasn't exactly conducive for embracing my inner goth either). 

As for Rozz, breaking in a new pair of Doc Martens is on the to-do list and Tinkerbell is on the donate pile. The pink paint can stick around because it's just a backdrop for the new posters and shelves. But can we please do something about those pink curtains? 

So talk to me dear Groovers...do you remember any moments where you embraced your individuality, either as a child or an adult? Let's discuss it in the comments section. And as always, if you want to bring the conversation to your site, drop your cyber address in too.

Song Choice: Pretty in Pink by the Psychedelic Furs

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Caffeine is Caffeine is Caffeine: Blogging Around with Rommy Week 11

Small sprouts have a lot

to teach stiffened trees

about bending in the rain

and loving the way

water collects on new leaves

to refract the sunlight after a storm.

This poem is linked to Imaginary Gardens with Real Toad's Tuesday Platform and Poets United 445.

The Liner Notes for this Groove:

It all started with a burst of caffeine. I know I asked my mother-law-for decaf. She swears she got me decaf. But about 16 years ago I knew a few things after I finished that coffee. A.) That was probably not decaf and B.) the expected jitters from said cup of coffee felt a lot more intense around my abdominal region, so even though it was a couple of weeks early I was fairly sure labor had started.

By dawn the next morning I was looking at my new-born kiddo, Rose. I suppose given her entrance into this world it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s become something of a caffeine enthusiast. So is she a coffee drinker like her dad or a tea drinker like her mom? I think Rose would most likely relate to the quote by Abraham Lincoln, “If this is coffee, please bring me tea; but if this is tea please bring me some coffee.” She cheerfully partakes of either as the whim takes her (she had one of each on the last day of being fifteen) because she sees no reason to place limits on enjoying things that make her happy.

As she’s making the transition from kid to very interesting young lady, she is vocal about expressing who she is, from her vivid and unabashedly geek chic clothes to her retro taste in music (on vinyl, if you please). And her joy is infectious. I wish I had felt confident enough to release my inner geek to run free in a frenzy of pixie-stix fueled glory. But seeing her happily embracing her quirkiness is the next best thing. Being her mom has taught me a lot about the magic that can happen when you are fully and authentically yourself, both as a writer and as a person.

I got a small print of this painting, AmanitaTea, 

when I ordered a larger one from Art by Lady Viktoria, 

and something about it just struck me as so Rose-like, I had to use it here.

So dear Groovers, what’s your preferred method of caffeine delivery? Or do you want to talk about a time when being authentically yourself made things interesting? Make your thoughts known about these questions or just catch me up on your week in the comments section. As always, you can drop a link to your cyber home if you want to elaborate on any comments you’ve left here.

Song Choice: The theme song from one of our favorite shows to watch together, One Day at a Time

Sun

Water is the mother of tea, a teapot its father, and fire the teacher. ~ Chinese Proverb

His sunshine is too big

to fit the dimensions others demand

for a pity poster boy.

He'll shred that poster

and burn it up in his flight

to the sky he chooses for himself.

Notes from the Real World: So I am not the only Driks to get published in 2018. My son Max had an article accepted by Public Source (a digital news source based out of Pittsburgh) about his experiences growing up as a person on the Autism spectrum that was published just as the year was taking its final bows.

There was a time when most of the discussion on the internet about children on the spectrum revolved around how hard the parents had it. While Max would be the first one to laugh if I said raising him was a breeze (and probably follow it up with a sheepish, "Sorry, Mom"), to claim it was all weariness and gloom would be a bigger joke. 

Firstly, there are always going to be challenging parts of parenthood. Good gods, even the Brady Bunch had their ups and downs. Secondly, I wouldn't wish away any part of my seriously witty, creative, off-beat kid young man. Raising him has been an honor. Getting to see how fired up he's become about writing (something that would probably come as a shock to some of his middle school teachers) is just a bonus. 

No matter where we come from, it is our own unique life experiences that shape and spark our voices as writers, whether we write fiction or non-fiction. I've been very candid with my son when we talk shop (between sessions of video game playing and political comedy watching) about how my experience as a first generation Latina-American shades a lot of the perspectives that come through in my writing (he was one of my first beta readers for my book and was able to spot the nuances - as well as get a good chuckle when he recognized the inspiration behind the budding storyteller enthralled by kooky hats).

He’s also talked to me about how important it was to him to have his voice as a person on the spectrum heard. On one such occasion, a look of dawning horror crossed over his face as he realized how passionate he was getting while discussing things like writing, representation, and authenticity of voice.

"I think I'm turning into you, Mom", he said.

"Sorry, Son," I replied. 

Song Choice: I could have gone so many ways with this. Baby Mine comes to mind when I remember sitting through IEP meetings with my husband, as we fiercely advocated for schooling that wasn't limited by the expectations people had for kids with a spectrum diagnosis. Dear Theodosia is a good fit because all of the pride I feel. And I have jokingly sang back lines from The Cat's in the Cradle to him when he remarks upon politics or writing ("My boy was just like me").

But there is one song I always associate with Max. Sometimes a song will pop into my head with no warning and it can be almost an omen of sorts. The moment I finished taking the pregnancy test that let me know Max was on his way, REM's The End of the World (As We Know It) popped on, right at the slow/ quiet part of the song (the guitar jam started right up as that blue line came into focus). When I was driving in the car, that song came on soon after Max's text to the family announcing the article's publication. I'll take that as a good omen for the birth of an author.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Lenny Bruce is not afraid. Neither is Max.

Photo by Ryan Loew/ Public Source

Fall 2018

The first time I time traveled

to the fall of 2018 in my mind

was when your father whispered,

“Look around. Any one of these

could be future family.”

I saw you, with your grandfather’s smile

on your young brown skinned face,

putting down your video games with an ease

you never showed when your father or I asked

to follow a smiling face to adventures unknown.

I traveled again, to the fall of 1990,

when I smiled at your father. We didn’t know

about the spring of 1995. “Just friends,” was what we said.

After all, I was dating someone else,

and if your father(‘s family) had ever time traveled,

he (they) had never seen someone like me

standing under a canopy next to him in the future.

My family was equally surprised.

My heart got broken and mended,

just as yours probably will.

Then I time traveled again, to fall 1999

when I vowed to keep you safe, knowing

there’s only so much a mother can do,

even if she plays video games, watches Pokemon,

and makes time to talk about the small things

to make it easier to talk about the big ones.

I know in the fall of 2018, I will crack jokes.

I’ll be the laid back mom you leaned on

through every big change that came before.

We got through everything as long as we could

laugh about it, even if we cried a little too.

I’ll cry a little in 2018. But I’ll show you

this poem in the winter of 2019, once you’ve settled in.

We’ll joke, “Dear gods! What will we do

in the fall of 2021?” while having your favorite dinner.

Hopefully the taste of rosemary will remind me

to enjoy that moment, and let the future take care of itself.

This poem was inspired by the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens For Real Toads: Watch the Corners which was based around the song by Dinosaur Jr of the same name. I have also linked up to Poet's United Poetry Pantry 363. 

While I could go with Watch the Corners for the song choice, instead I'm going to go with the song that had me bawling when I was pregnant with my now college-bound son, You'll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins, from the movie Tarzan, because that was really the first time I knew that someday my baby boy was going to grow up.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Adulting at the Dawn of Coulrophobia

I hadn’t dealt with coulrophobia.

Certainly arachnophobia and the curse of itchy tags

were among the chief commanding concerns.

This is different.

They are half Latinx from my side

and go to temple with their father.

They’ve been surrounded by the hygge

of a small diverse town. They slept well.

What do I say now that they’re woke

by klaxons in a post-truth world?

You are worth fighting for.   

Song Choice: Dear Theodosia from the play Hamilton

This poem was inspired by the prompt given over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Word Count With Mama Zen

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Lessons from Roses

“I come from latkes and empanadas,”

she said, waving her assignment high for me to see.

She wears her crown of in-between so well,

no doubting or worrying where she belongs.

I smile. It won’t be too long before

some teen woe sets us at odds.

But, she still wants to show me 

how she can be like me.

I want to learn to be like her.

I’ll put down the chore list

and listen to where her words took her,

because motherhood isn’t measured out

in laundry baskets or coffee spoons.  

It’s more like preserved rose beads

made of memories strung together.

Song Choice: Watching You - Rodney Atkins

This poem was in response to the prompt given over at a Dash of Sunny, Prompt Nights: Stop and Smell the Roses and is part of the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Gardens for Real Toads

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Roaring Lessons

My wee one with your dents de lion, you must start in your plump belly. Push out to pull the most air in. More air means a bigger roar. Have some snap in your bite, little dragon. Your teeth are sharp and strong. Show me the paws, young wolf, which will be a bane to those who would harm you. Both Beauty and Terror crouch outside your crib. You are not big enough to leave my arms yet. But while you are here, heed what I have to say so when the crown of flowers is yours, you do not question your strength.

Small of fang and paw,

the things which threaten are large,

but you will grow soon.

Song Choice: Truly Brave by Cyndi Lauper and Sarah Bareilles 

Madonna of the Flowers by Shelle Kennedy

Visit her blog, Sunshine Shelle, to see more great art!

This poem inspired by the prompt given by Magaly Guererro's Dark Poetry for the Cruelest Month 2016: Let's Haibun Her a Tale (a haibun based on Shelle's lovely art)

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Now We Are Sixteen and Thirteen

It’s sometimes unsettling

to look up or straight ahead,

when I was so used to crouching down.

It’s disorienting

to see a mustache of hair

instead one made of milk.

It’s bewildering

to see my favorite sweaters

skip out the door

on a straight haired version of myself.

I miss the days

when they thought the best thing in the world

was hearing me read to them in funny voices

while they dipped apples into peanut butter.

I miss the days

when all it took was me singing

about a frog’s aspirations or the loneliness of a unicorn

to soothe their hearts.

But

I love the curious young woman

who walks with me every afternoon,

and whose open heart and open mind

makes me smile and inspires me.

I love the earnest young man

who talks with me about video games and politics,

and whose depth of insight and empathy

makes me think and gives me hope.

I’ll look through their baby albums today,

then put them back on the shelf,

looking forward to good conversation at dinner.

I hope they clean up their dishes this time. 

Song Choice: Since the inspiration at Imaginary Gardens at Real Toads was based on Bittersweet Melodies by Feist, I'm going with that.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks