History Remembers You

Mom.

You should paint again.

You should write again.

Somewhere along the way,

your voice was smashed almost

into oblivion underneath callous hands

that didn’t know how to cherish

you like you deserved.

And, kneeling, you picked up

and cradled those shards of yourself

in your arms while you cradled us.

And pieces of you fell along your

journey forward trudging into the future

to give us the best life possible.

I’m sure you longed to have those pieces

back but you left them behind

so that you had more time to work,

more time to give us things you

thought we should have, not caring

that while our smiles brightened yours

dimmed, the watts carefully drained

to power the brilliance of our dreams

instead of yours.

*

You packed away your creativity

—that once brought you such joy—

like clothes haphazardly thrown in a suitcase

then stuffed in a closet to be forgotten.

Like treasured photographs accidentally

left behind in a move,

this part of you became lost,

and I hear how decades later

you still mourn it sometimes in a quiet voice

during sleepy nights when you think

no one is listening.

But I’m listening, connected by crackling

phone states and states away

and connected by the shared

blood pumping through our hearts,

I’m listening.

*

Mom, we are older now,

we are gone like sand in the wind

wherever destiny takes us.

You taught us how to strive for the stars,

built our staircase throughout the galaxy

to do so, and now it's time for us to reach

a hand back and bring you here too to

sit like a goddess on the crescent moon,

lounging in a universe that is fully yours.

*

It’s time.

You should paint again.

You should write again.

Draw in brilliant yellows,

color plucked straight from dreams

of the shirt worn by your mother’s warm hugs.

Paint in your favorite hue, red decorating

canvas like autumn leaves.

Create blue like alchemy, magicked

from the oceans visited time

and time again and the sky

that has watched over you since birth.

Laugh over beloved cocker spaniel

tracking paint accidentally throughout

the house while you chase him with outrage,

anger waning as a warm memory replaces it.

*

An unlauded laureate divining words

straight from your heart, syllables

gently wrapping around each other

to form the perfect stanza, allow

recognition to envelope you.

The thesaurus hiding in your brain

begs to be released, to spin tales

and messages that will be passed

down for generations.

Summon the strength of the hymns and

stories our ancestors sang on slave ships

as they were stolen from their homes.

Rise.

Rise like the sea,

like the sun,

and like buoyant air.

By birthright you are a poet,

the pen ordained you as so.

Reclaim the creativity that life drained from you

without care and without remorse.

Stand triumphantly anew like phoenix song,

reborn and baptized by your own growth,

paintbrush and pen in hand.

History remembers you

even though it does not yet know you.

*

Hear this:

I want you to be happy.

I want you to smile so wide that your cheeks hurt.

I want you to create things for yourself

again like you selflessly created life.

Dance without care for who is looking,

breathless with laughter.

Spin unabashedly in the rain, wet hair

plastered to your face but not

quite hiding your happiness.

Shine so brightly that everyone

can’t help but to stand in awe

of your brilliance and the beauty of your joy.

Mom, I must confess, I want you to live again.