Musings by The Poet Loriet
When I Was Five
Broken promises were okay
after I held my teddy bear.
Harsh words melted
with a smile and a kiss
to my forehead as Mommy
smoothed back my hair.
At age thirty-three,
broken hearts and dreams
mean wiping the tears away,
forcing a smile as you
ask your next client,
"How can I help you?,"
blaming your red puffy face
on those "darn allergies."
When I was a little girl,
I could run into any pair of open arms,
climb in someone's lap,
and cry as long as I needed
to "get the sad monster out."
At age thirty-three,
it's much harder
to find a pair of open arms.
Life goes on,
and everybody has...
the delivery person at the door,
grocery shopping to do,
someone on the other line,
the baby crying,
an appointment in ten minutes...
An "owie" at age five
meant a hastily-applied bandaid,
a pretty sparkly one
in my favorite color.
Boo-boos healed with kisses
were forgotten
as I picked
my favorite nickel candy.
As a grown woman,
a ten dollar margarita
quickly loses its numb
and doesn't take the problems away,
just leaves you feeling guilty
because that money
could have been spent
on the kids school shoes.
At night,
when the kids are
tucked in safely,
dishes washed,
clothes folded...
and I am alone
with only the dark
as a witness,
I go back to being five.
I hold my favorite doll,
curl up in the blanket
Grandma Dot sewed me,
and let myself cry,
crawling into God's lap,
praying
for help to be strong...
so that I can wake up
in the morning,
owies kissed away
by angels in the night,
and with a strong cup of coffee
to strengthen my resolve...
I'm ready to play dress-up
and start all over again.
Lori Beal
after I held my teddy bear.
Harsh words melted
with a smile and a kiss
to my forehead as Mommy
smoothed back my hair.
At age thirty-three,
broken hearts and dreams
mean wiping the tears away,
forcing a smile as you
ask your next client,
"How can I help you?,"
blaming your red puffy face
on those "darn allergies."
When I was a little girl,
I could run into any pair of open arms,
climb in someone's lap,
and cry as long as I needed
to "get the sad monster out."
At age thirty-three,
it's much harder
to find a pair of open arms.
Life goes on,
and everybody has...
the delivery person at the door,
grocery shopping to do,
someone on the other line,
the baby crying,
an appointment in ten minutes...
An "owie" at age five
meant a hastily-applied bandaid,
a pretty sparkly one
in my favorite color.
Boo-boos healed with kisses
were forgotten
as I picked
my favorite nickel candy.
As a grown woman,
a ten dollar margarita
quickly loses its numb
and doesn't take the problems away,
just leaves you feeling guilty
because that money
could have been spent
on the kids school shoes.
At night,
when the kids are
tucked in safely,
dishes washed,
clothes folded...
and I am alone
with only the dark
as a witness,
I go back to being five.
I hold my favorite doll,
curl up in the blanket
Grandma Dot sewed me,
and let myself cry,
crawling into God's lap,
praying
for help to be strong...
so that I can wake up
in the morning,
owies kissed away
by angels in the night,
and with a strong cup of coffee
to strengthen my resolve...
I'm ready to play dress-up
and start all over again.
Lori Beal
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When I Was Five
When I Was Five
