Skip to main content

The Fourth Time

It took me four times
To be the mom
I knew was inside
Of me

It took me four times
To learn to open
The closure I forced
For it was incomplete

It took me four times
To learn that I am
Not always
Correct

It took me four times to understand
The wound
I had forgotten
Was yet wet

It took me four times
To apologize to
My inner love
For her angst

It took me four times
To consider if
Now was the right time
To lend more trust

It took me four times
To see that I was still
Holding lots of me
Inside of me

It took four times
To realize
My teachers
Were all
My mini
Me's.

It took me four times
To truly love
Like I used to
Openly.

And I've still
Got souls
To
Live
For,
Four.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

White or Black? Choose ONE.

After a long hiatus from blogging, I was finally inspired to pick up my virtual "pen" and write after reading, crying, and being inspired by an article in the May issue of Ebony magazine. Catapulted in part by the remarks by Halle Berry in a past issue of Ebony regarding her view on her daughter's race, this issue is chock-full of articles regarding mixed persons' views of themselves, their families, their mixed-raced children, and what they regard themselves as racially. The crying ensued as relief-that I am not alone, that others feel as I do, that I can share my feelings without the fear of judgement. That I can be honest about who I see myself as. Because this is about ME, not about others' feelings or perceptions of me. Not about what is "politically correct" regarding my raceor allowing society to push me into a "neat little box" of either Black or White. As an adoptee, my Black parents always made sure I knew what I was mixed with, b...

What I Wish I Would've Done

Everyone handles grief differently. I would say I hold it at a distance, tolerating it in small spurts. My Great-Grandmother Donna Langdon died recently. Although I only knew her for a short time (being reunited 6-7 years ago after being adopted), I find myself missing her. I handle death in a very meticulous way. First, I being to tell myself that it will soon happen, sometimes preparing many, many years in advance. I have done this with my grandparents, and I did this with my great-grandmother. Some people say they "don't think about it," but I'm the opposite...I understand it as a normal part of life, I forewarn myself of it's pending coming, and gently remind myself every so often so I can figure out the best way for me to handle the situation. This may seem morbid to you, or insensitive even. Truth is, if I don't think about it, plan on it, I'm not sure how my grief process would end up. For me, death is the ultimate separation in this life. I...

Interracial Relationships-Long Overdue

As many of you may know, there was a point in time where even writing about this issue as a mixed-race woman married to a white man would be cause for an uproar and possibly dangerous to my family. It saddens me to think that our segregated world controlled our lives to down to the point of who we could or could not be in love with and choose to share our lives with. It not only saddens, but sickens me. I can only imagine the many who risked their lives and reputations in the sake of race love. The sad movie "Imitation of Life" (1959) was shown to me at a mother-daughter function over my aunt's house. Some of my aunt's and their daughters had gotten together for Sunday lunch and a movie. I never forgot that movie. I was saddened that Sarah Jane disowned her mother to live a White lifestyle, regretting her hurtful actions a little too late, chasing after her mother's casket down the street after her mother died of a broken heart. If you remember, in the movie Sar...