The Wall

He stands firm and solid
Barricaded, blocked and shattered
No face of fear, senses battered

Chiseled of stone and a few extra bones
His statuesque stance draws her in
Hands of fate, frightful fate
She fell unto her knees

Growing weary waiting
She picks at his feet, he's rooted.

When the rains come, the vines will grow
"Just try to move your feet!" she cries.
She stands up to help him move
Grabs him by the hand
He quickly turns to sand

Patchwork

They say you can't force love
But I wish you could

It's not been long since I felt the pull
But looking at you now, I'm not so sure

Anymore, anywhere, anyhow I don't care
Let me show you, take my hand and don't be scared

I walk into this house of mirrors, run up the stairs
I open every door, search every room and I can't find it
It's not the same place that kept us warm.

It didn't vanish into thin air
There was a cold, slow leak we didn't see.
What if I told you I found a magic patch?
Would you help me put it on?
Seal it and fix it at last?

For You I Will

“What am I going to do when I can't fit in this desk anymore?” I said to myself as I crammed my five month pregnant belly into my seat.  It was in this moment, Spanish class in May of 1997, that I realized the fluttering I had been feeling in my stomach all morning had not been gas, it was the baby I felt. I practically jumped out of my seat. The little limb inside me pushed so hard, I must have made a strange noise. The teacher stopped and noticed me. She walked over to me and asked in her excited Spanish accent if it was the baby causing me to call out. I nodded my head, smiled with mind-blowing excitement, then noticed the others looking at me. To this day I am still not sure if their smiles were genuine.

When I would hear the word “adoption” come out of my Mother's mouth, an overwhelming feeling of dread would come over me. Why couldn't it be the way I wanted it to? "I know I can do this!" I would say to myself. Heck, if Mom had my older sister Jes at the age of 19, why couldn't I do it at 16? Everyone had always told me how mature I was for my age. But then there was the breast cancer. Shortly after that last month of Sophomore year, I sat on the stairs watching the June sun shine through the window onto my Mother as she received the news about her biopsy.

Joan was an angelic looking silver-haired woman in her sixties. Her eyes held the pains and joys of her job, she was warm and inviting. She handed me the photo albums of the families on the adoption waiting list. I paged through these photo albums, I read their occupations, their religions and tried to imagine these couples holding my baby in their family portraits. Sick to my stomach.

After the third interview with my baby's new parents, we knew they were the ones. They were the lucky ones, who got to have my baby. Once the decision had been made a whirlwind of “official”documents, phone calls and meetings were arranged. How this all took place, was what seemed like the planning of a funeral.

I wasn't aware of my surroundings for those last few months. I purchased baby clothing and a baby bath and hid them in my bedroom closet. I feared my Mom would get mad if she found them. Going through these motions, I was unaware that I was secretly trying to keep my daughter. I found myself reading beyond the pregnancy chapters of my pregnancy book, into the post-partum chapters on caring for a new infant. As I read these, I felt like it was forbidden information, but I needed to know it for some reason. What if they changed their minds after all, and I got to keep her? I needed to prepare.

Still to this day I am convinced that they let me stay an extra day in the hospital, not because I was a young “at-risk” mother, but because they knew those were the last moments that she would be “mine”. Coming home from the hospital without your baby could be compared to a brutal crucifixion encompassing your entire being and thread of existence.

Joan had informed us that some families like to have a “handing over” ceremony. We agreed. This, I was in charge of. This fall morning was different from the others, the smell of the autumn leaves vanished overnight, the Indian summer sun in the sky seemed so far away. I had the music picked out to play while I stood up in front of these two families brought together by this little baby girl. I had prepared a letter to my daughter, which I read out loud during the ceremony. I'm pretty sure when I glanced up to look at the crowd of family and friends from these temporarily united, everyone was crying, even my daughter's new Grandpa. Were their hearts crushing with mine?

I was allowed a few minutes alone with her afterwards in the bridal room in the basement of the church. This is where I admired her long black eyelashes, her soft button nose, silky fresh skin and the smell of her sweet breath for the last time. Don't ever forget this moment. Will I see you again? When? How long will I have to wait? Will I be able to survive this pain for that long? Will you know I did this out of love, and not because I didn't want you? “I love you forever Kyah Jane”.

The days that passed felt like walking miles upon miles through barbed wire, months went by and through the years the pictures and letters came. They would tell me she knew who I was, and that she knew that she grew in my tummy. But it wasn't until that package arrived that had my homemade shrinky dink necklace in it, that I would believe. Wrapped in purple paper with silver writing of a 6 year old. I made this for you Leah. She knew who I was! It's true!

You can separate two souls, but you can't unbind them. True love is selfless. An endless process of love and pain.