home ← poems

Beautiful Blessings (destruction)

written February 2016

I live with a family and their little girl is a riot.
By riot I mean the uncontrollable laughter and giggling that brings anyone to their knees, the fits of violent screaming when she doesn’t get her way,
And the most lovely smile that will sucker you in anyhow.
She will hold her own against any oppressive line in English, baby babble, and Russian.
She is well-read (for a 1 year old) and fights for her rights, dressed up with presidential regality.
Her heritage? You might describe as the perfect American prototype: banker father, lawyer mother, married, homeowners, upper middle class, socially conscious, church-going, with a supporting and stable extended family.
They are beautifully blessed

I visited some friends and their daughter is a hurricane.
By hurricane I mean the deadly and beautiful combination of Filipino, Japanese, and Caucasian; the dreamy, wispy hair that mimics spiral cloud formations, and the shy personality that escalates into a torrent of tears when she is scared.
She loves to build with legos and promptly destroy her wistful creations.
She is a princess – watching over her domain in her high chair while observing the gladiator matches of Halo. [change this]
Her forerunners? A Hawaiian mom and Midwestern dad who conceived her out of wedlock but held on tight to their surprise gift. Parents who have experienced the brokenness of divorced and remarried parents and know how to hold on in the storm.
And they are beautifully blessed.

I had an almost daughter and she would have been nuclear.
By nuclear I mean born to be a worldchanger through blasts of creativity, the tears that flow for the lack of justice, and gentleness that would send shockwaves to every nation
She would have loved to listen to the explosiveness of Rachmaninoff to rap
She would have loved to garden and bring new life into the world
Her hug would melt even the strongest of steel; Her dancing footsteps would shake the foundation of any soul
Her epicenter? Almost parents who talked about her and made plans for her
But it turned out her almost father was a recovering addict
So the toxic relationship was aborted for the life of the almost mother
And all that remains are the ashes and dust of memories and almosts that stick like the shadows of Hiroshima
But I too am beautifully blessed.