Knackered

melissa_puglise_yankee_4baabf6ee6781a20edc78cf3f55e8b3f.today-inline-large

Photo: today.com/parents

When you’re out of juice

Depleted

Wrung out

Brain-mushed

Yawn-injected …

Take the time to rest.

When you’re harking for the days

Of face plant in spaghetti …

It’s time for slug-fest.

When you’re putting keys in fridge

And eggs in pockets …

Take the hint

And

Make a nest.

 

 

[Dedicated with much love to Adele, who I have a feeling understands … :)]

 

For The Daily Post

The Blanket

diaryofaquilter

photo: diaryofaquilter.com

 

He took it with him everywhere: School, the doctor’s office, the park, the car, the dinner table. He carried it in hand, in the backpack, over his shoulder. It was to him a cape, a comfort, a memory of tucking in, a constancy.

It’s always been there. He couldn’t remember a time before.

Well-worn, oft-washed, much-handled.

His blanket.

Never out of sight.

He’d sit before the washing machine and watch it spinning, floppy, in a foamy sea. Later he’d guard the dryer as the blanket tumbled, already impatient to come back warm and scented into his arms.

He’d place it at the ready on the bathroom stepstool to guard him as he washed. A sentinel over his pajamas.

It waited right under the chair at mealtime, in temporary exile from his lap after his argument that the blanket could make an excellent napkin had failed.

Even at school, where he wasn’t allowed to hold it, he’d leave a small blanket-ear peeking out of his cubby; to remind him it was there, with him, waiting for the end of the school-day.

It was a coat of heart, a shroud of courage, a cover against storms of any kind.

It was almost part of him. His blanket.

Then the fire came. He was carried half-in-sleep and heavy-headed, by a man whose giant shadow painted wall-monsters against the orange flicker and the swirling smoke.

There was more flicker outside: blue and red and white and blinding. Shouts and calls and creaks and cries and movement. Yellow coats, red truck, bright door, funny mask.

And no blanket.

It was gone. To Blanket Heaven.

A spark in the sky now. A spot of cloud. A star.

Lost along with Curious George and Teddy Ben and his dinosaur car.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

 

 

 

“I Gray?”

play-dough-people-faces

Photo: picklebums.com

 

His maman is from Haiti. His “so called papa” is “no one you’d want to remember” (as per his maman and grand-maman) because he has “no color in his eyes or heart.”

The boy has soft waves of honey brown hair. Cupid lips. Deep brown eyes. Light caramel skin. Freckles on his nose.

He’s recently discovered the magic of combining colors. He finds it entrancing. He is especially moved by the alchemy of what happens when you add white.

“You have black?” he asks, pointing to the Play-doe containers on my shelf.

“No,” I note, “I ran out. But I have brown.”

“Let me see.”

I hand him a container and he pulls the lid off and inspects the contents. “It in the wrong place,” he states, pointing to the yellow lid.

“I know. I just used a container I already had. It didn’t come that way. We made the brown from mixing different colors.”

“Who make it?”

“One of the other kids I work with made it. You want to try and make brown, too?”

He frowns, considers, shakes his head. “But I want some.”

“You want to use some of it? Sure. Go ahead.”

He pinches a bit of the dough and rolls in pensively between his fingers. “You have white?”

“I do!” I give him the white-topped container. He peeks in. After the yellow-topped one holding brown, one never knows …

He pulls out a chunk and begins kneading the white piece into the brown. A moment passes, then another. He’s quiet. He’s got something on his mind.

“Brown people are called black,” he notes.

“Hmm…” I nod. I wonder if he’d say more.

He glances at the yellow lid and I wonder if he’s wondering if it is one more of those “in the wrong place” designations. He sighs.

“I black but I also white,” he raises his eyes to me. “That mean I gray?”

 

 

For The Daily Post

 

 

Do Not Be Silenced

The Childrens Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem
The Children’s Memorial, Yad Vashem

 

 

In remembrance of times

Of horror

Never to repeat

Never to minimize:

Do not shy

Of voice

Do not shy

Of fact

Do not shy

Of holding truth

To challenge

Those who in their blindness,

In their hunger to cause pain,

Seek to deny

The cost of hate

The force of harm

The voice of those who had been silenced.

Do not be silenced.

Be brave.

Walk tall.

Remember:

Those who seek to silence

To zip history closed

To limit learning,

Can only do so

If they make you forget

The truth

Entrusted to you — to all of us —

By those who’d perished

And those who’d managed

To survive.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

 

Counter-Spike!

 

light for peace

Dhammakaya Temple, Thailand: 100,000 Monks Praying for Peace, (Luke Duggleby)

 

 

There’s a spike in crime. There’s a spike in hate. There’s a spike in divisive talk around the country, world, the internet.

There’s a spike in violence, a spike in stress, a spike in power-hunger, a spike in blame.

Let’s spike a counter-spike, to douse the flames.

Let us spike in kindness. Let’s bring a spike in care. May a spike in love envelop everywhere. …

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Small Fry

Children phototechnique.com

They may be small

They may be young

They may often get taken, transferred, pushed around.

They may get little voice

About things that affect their lives.

They may have few actual ways

To keep alive.

Their views may be ignored

Laughed at

Minimized.

Their needs may all too often be relegated

To agendas others have.

But small as they are, they are mighty

They are brave of soul

And heart.

They hold opinions

Dreams

Ideas

Insights.

Our care makes all the difference

To the future

That they hold

Inside.

For The Daily Post

 

Happy Girl

Happy Girl from pintrest
Photo: Pinterest

She giggles at the slightest silly

She grins at mirrors

Smiles through windows

Makes a dozen strangers’ day.

She beams at dogs, at books

A toy, a leaf, a pigeon

The world itself at play.

She chuckles at her own reflection

Adores someone’s freckles, wrinkles, shoes.

She rejoices in a pigtail, a polka-dot ribbon

Celebrates a doll, a braid, a tube of sparkling glue.

She chortles with abandon at a joke

“Again, again!”

She finds joy in the smallest moments

Her laughter paints bright happy into

Even the most mundane.

 

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

See Through

looking through
Photo: Borzui.tumblr.com

 

Not all that shows outside, is what may be within.

Not all reflection knows the spirit

Light or dark or dim.

Be kind to those whose face is blank.

Be kind to those whose face speaks more.

You never know

The depth of life

That simmers, yearns, below.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post