Still here

Wet nosed greetings

wake me before my alarm.

The dogs are up.

I slip on my pants

and find my shoes.

Morning is the best time of the day.

Birds sing, trees rustle,

the sun peeks out from behind the evergreens

(and sometimes we see an eagle).

The dogs and I return home as the kids are waking up.

It’s time for me to make breakfast.

Jade likes a toasted English Muffin with a fried egg

where the yolk is just soft enough to run,

but hard enough not to drip all over her hands and nails.

Noah prefers oatmeal

with blueberries if we have them

or bananas if we don't.

Jaylen likes his eggs overeasy

so he can sop them up with toast.

We call them dippy eggs.

My meds are to be taken with a 400 calorie meal,

so I make myself two eggs

with a slice of turkey.

I wash down my pills with coffee,

a chaser of probiotics and vitamins,

and a protein shake.

When I first got my HIV diagnosis,

it was winter.

Jade was two years old

Jaylen was six

and we hadn’t yet met Noah.

I was overwhelmed.

Feelings of shame and guilt

soaked deep into my bones

like the Seattle rain that winter.

I could not get warm.

I could not get dry.

I did not take pills with breakfast.

Worried about getting sick,

I worried more about my kids finding out I was sick.

Afraid of dying,

but more afraid my kids would think I was going to die.

I did not want to leave them,

but mostly needed to assure them I would stay.

And so breakfast became our routine,

a communion of love,

a way to start our day together.

One where my children taught me

how to love myself again,

how to warm back up

and dry back out

over toasted bread, eggs and oatmeal.

One where I showed them I am still here.

Because of them,

and for them,

and thanks to them

I am still here.

A version of this poem was first published by HIV Here & Now Poem-a-Day Project for National Poetry Month 2020, Indolent Books, April 28, 2020.