I think I’ve realized that through words, through stories, through poetry, we can change the way we see the world.
And even more important, we can change the way we see ourselves.
the hospital—9:17 a.m.
I hurt.
Everything hurts.
I moan.
I feel hands on me and hear voices around me talking about dosages and vital signs.
What did the nurses say earlier?
People holding vigil.
What does that mean?
It’s so hard to think.
Do they know all the ugly details?
Half the town. That’s what they said. Half the town knows?
The pain is almost too much to take.
I moan again.
Make it stop.
Please, just make it all stop.
one day earlier
twelve hours or else
THERE’S NOTHING QUITE LIKE WAKING UP TO A YELLING MATCH from the bedroom next door. So much fun. I rolled over and opened one eye to see the time on my clock radio. Four thirty. In the morning.
“Dean, I told you,” Mom yelled, “I don’t have anything to give you. You took it all!”
“There’s got to be more around here. You’re holding out on me. I know it.” Then came the sound of drawers dropping to the ground, one after the other, as he dumped stuff onto the floor. I could picture him going through Mom’s panties and bras, hoping to find a stash of cash she’d tucked away. I hoped for her sake she was telling the truth. I didn’t know what he’d do if he found out she’d been lying to him.
After a few minutes he stormed into my room. I sat up as he flipped on the light. With squinted eyes, I watched him as he went to my desk, looking for my purse. I’d learned my lesson, though. I didn’t keep it there anymore.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t have any money either, Dean. Are you seriously in that much trouble again? So much for your promises.”
He marched over and slapped me across the face. He hit me so hard, my head slammed against the headboard and made a loud cracking sound. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to cry, and held my hand on the spot, wondering if it was going to bleed.
Mom stood in the doorway, crying. “Dean, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”
“They are going to kill me, Joan. If I don’t come up with some kind of payment, those thugs are going to kill me. Is that clear enough for you?” He looked at the clock as he ran his hands through his thinning hair. “I have about twelve hours to figure out how to come up with some cash or I am a dead man. It’s that simple.”
Mom pleaded. “Rae. Don’t you have anything? Even just a few dollars might help him.”
No way. I wasn’t giving Dean anything else. Along with my money, he’d taken my dignity, my confidence, and, at times, any hope I had for a better future. I shook my head and started fiddling with my ring. My stupid, nervous habit. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I don’t have anything.”
Dean stormed over and grabbed my hand. “The hell you don’t.” He practically tore my finger off my hand as I tried to pull away from him. He was too strong for me.
I held my naked finger, screaming. “No! Please, not that!”
“Someday you’ll regret not trying harder to help me!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “You worthless piece of shit.”
He stomped off, making sure to slam the front door as he left.
As I cried, I checked my head for blood again. Nothing, though I was starting to get a bump. It hurt. Not as much as my heart, though, as I thought about losing Grandma’s ring forever.
My mom melted onto the floor, her hands on her face as she let out big ugly sobs. I got out of bed and wrapped my arms around her, rocking her back and forth, telling her everything would be okay.
I hoped they did kill him. I knew I shouldn’t think like that, but I did. We needed Dean out of our lives for good so we could finally have some peace.
I took her back to her room and tucked her into bed.
“I’m sorry, Rae,” she whispered.
“I know, Mom. I am too.”
She rolled over and I tiptoed out, shutting the door behind me.
Back in my room, I looked out my bedroom window. Dean had taken Mom’s car, thank goodness. I’d have my truck to get to school.
Still, it was too early to get up, and I’d never be able to go back to sleep. I grabbed my laptop, put on some Foo, then pulled out my journal. It lay next to the book I’d finally finished, Eyes Like Mine. The book was way overdue, but I’d taken a long time finishing it because I’d been so worried about the girl in the story. I wasn’t sure the main character was going to get the happy ending I desperately wanted for her. She had to fight for it. Really fight.
But in the end, she got it.
She got exactly what I wanted.
poetry journal—april
CHERISH
In books
we watch
as characters
go through
hard times.
We pull
for them
as they
struggle
to survive.
In our hearts
they deserve
the happy ending.
I haven’t always
rooted for myself.
Haven’t always
believed in my heart
that I deserve
the happy ending.
While I’ve always
cherished words,
books and poetry,
I haven’t always
cherished my
own story.
I realize now
my life is worth
cherishing.
And I’m going to fight
for my own
happy ending.
kindness revealed
AT SCHOOL PEOPLE WERE ALL ABUZZ ABOUT THE LATEST POETRY pages. I grabbed a newspaper, went to my locker, and flipped it open. A letter from Ms. Bloodsaw caught my attention, so I read it first.
From the editor
I’ll admit, the idea of a poetry anthology worried me. And the idea of poetry in the newspaper worried me even more. I didn’t know if students would be receptive to the poetry section and whether we’d get any submissions.
As an English teacher, I knew I would regret it if I didn’t at least try. Poetry is good for the soul, as a reader, as a writer, or as both.
“Poetry Matters” far surpassed my expectations. Honestly, I had hoped we’d get enough poems for one page. In this issue, you will see poetry now fills six pages. The panel of teachers is now reviewing the year’s poems to select the entries for the anthology. We definitely have our work cut out for us.
I mentioned to one of my students, as the number of anonymous poets grew every month, that it felt like we had started a poetry revolution. She started to wonder if we were perhaps sending the wrong message to students who were having troubles. How could we help each other if we didn’t reveal our true identities?
That student decided to start signing her poems with her own name.
As you will see, she wasn’t the only one. We discussed the issue in my classes and what came out of those discussions was a desire, I believe, on most everyone’s part, to be empathetic to our fellow students. Instead of being a harsh critic, we will try to be an encouraging friend. I’m afraid, at times, it is easier said than done. Still, I am impressed with all of you who have promised to try. And even more impressed with those of you who are putting yourselves out there through your work, exposing parts of your life you may not have ever let anyone see before.
May the truth set you free.
Lorraine Bloodsaw
Editor in Chief
I turned to the poetry section. Like she’d said, there were more pages this time than ever before. But, surprisingly, of the six pages, only one page contained anonymous poems.
Dale, the quiet kid in English,
had written a poem about being sexually abused by one of his relatives when he was younger, and how he still had nightmares about it. I scanned the pages, looking for other names I might recognize. Felicia wrote one about struggling with an eating disorder. She had never said a thing to us. But there it was, her insecurities about appearances shown in a whole new light.
The last one I read before the bell rang was by Alix. It talked about how she’d lost her grandma to cancer three years ago, and how she still missed her. It made me tear up, because I understood the pain she spoke of that occurs after a memory unexpectedly surfaces, often triggered by the simplest thing, like a smell or a special song.
It’s hard to describe how I felt after reading what other people were going through. People I knew. People I called friends.
I felt more connected to them.
I felt changed.
shine
MY STOMACH HURT ALL DAY. I FELT ANXIOUS. WHAT IF SOMETHING actually happened to Dean? Would I feel guilty? What about Mom? As much as I hated the guy, I knew she needed him in a way I didn’t understand. She’d be devastated if she lost him.
And yet, I kept thinking Dean had been exaggerating. This wasn’t New York City or Chicago. Men didn’t come busting down your door, fill you with holes, and dump your body in the river if you owed them money. This was nice little Crestfield. Where grandmas and granddaughters walked to the library and made tomato soup for lunch. Where couples went to the park to play and kiss under the oak tree. Where a little old lady left a special book to a girl she hardly even knew.
I reassured myself that Dean would be fine. We’d all be fine. Whatever was going on, maybe he’d wake up, stop gambling, and finally get a job.
I could only hope.
After school I found Nathan leaning against the hood of my truck. He looked so gaunt that he almost looked sick. Rumor had it he’d been kicked off the baseball team for using drugs. Thankfully, after our last encounter, he’d left me alone. And I’d made it a point to stay clear of him.
“I hear you and that guy are hot and heavy now.” He stood up straight, his words slurred a little bit.
“It’s nice to see you too, Nathan.” I felt the knot in my stomach tighten as my hand instinctively went to fiddle with my ring, only to find a lonely finger. His body was tense as his eyes glared at me. Why was he so angry with me? Hadn’t I done everything I could to help him?
“I just want to know one thing. You did care about me, right? I didn’t imagine it all, did I?”
It felt like we were standing on a tightrope way up high. Like if I made one wrong move, we’d both go crashing to the ground. I knew I had to tell him what he needed to hear. I stepped closer, and with a soft, soothing voice, I replied, “Of course I cared about you, Nathan. I still do. And so do lots of other people.”
“It’s not true. No one gives a shit about me,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “Look around, Rae. Who cares?” His eyes scanned the parking lot, so I did the same. Kids walked past us, their heads down, phones out. They were oblivious. “Nobody. That’s who.”
The way he looked, the way he spoke, something was really off. I’d never seen him like this. “That’s not true. Your friends care. Your parents care. And I care too.”
He kicked a rock with his foot. It was like my words passed right over him. Why should he believe me, after all? I suddenly hated myself for not doing more for him. When his eyes met mine again, the intense pain I saw there sent a shiver down my spine. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and as he stared at me with those hurt and angry eyes, fear coursed through my veins, and I had a sudden urge to turn around and run.
But a little voice inside me told me to stay. He needed me to stay. I had to believe he wouldn’t hurt me. So I didn’t run. Because I knew Nathan felt like everyone was against him. In his mind, everyone was running away from him, and more than anything, he felt alone.
I knew that feeling all too well.
Where light shines, darkness disappears.
I put my arms around him and gave him a big, long hug. At first he resisted. Then he took his hands out of his pockets and wrapped his arms around me. Soon he was sobbing into my hair.
Now people looked at us. But I didn’t move.
I don’t know how long we stood there. A long, long time. And when he finally pulled away, even with his face all red and blotchy, he looked a little better.
“I think you need to talk to someone,” I whispered, wiping away a tear with my thumb. “Can I walk you inside? To find someone who knows more than I do?”
He didn’t answer for a while, as he tried to get his breathing back to normal. Finally, Nathan gave me the slightest of nods. That was all I needed. I took his hand and led him into the school.
“It’ll be okay,” I told him when we reached the counseling office.
• • •
Those words played on repeat while I drove to work, as I tried to calm down.
It’ll be okay.
My head buzzed with Dean’s words and then Nathan’s. Two people at their breaking point, and it felt like I’d let them down. Like it was my fault, somehow, that their situations had gotten so bad. I should have done more.
It’ll be okay.
But I knew I couldn’t wish it to be so. When I got to work, I practically ran to see Leo. I needed to feel normal. I needed Leo to tell me it’d be all right. If anyone could make me feel better, it was Leo.
His dad was helping a customer. I noticed for the first time how much Leo looked like his father. They had the same warm smile. I felt myself relax a little, finally.
After the customer got her coffee, I went to the counter. “Hey, Mack. Is Leo around?”
“Hi, Rae. Didn’t you see him? I just sent him over to the shop to see if Nina has some scissors we can borrow. I have looked everywhere and I can’t find them. Georgia probably put them somewhere for safekeeping, which means we’ll never see them again.” He smiled, causing his eyes to crinkle around the edges. “I’m kidding. I’m just terrible at finding things.”
I returned his smile. “I am too. Thanks, I stopped here first, but I’ll go find him.”
I waited outside the café for a minute, wanting to see Leo alone, not in front of my boss and coworker. But he didn’t come.
What was taking him so long? Nina has scissors on every available surface, I thought. Finally, I headed over to Full Bloom, and when I walked in the door, it became very clear why Leo was taking so long.
always love
I GASPED AT THE SCENE IN FRONT OF ME.
Nina stood behind the counter, her entire body shaking.
Spencer stood next to her, his hands in the air, talking in a calm, soothing voice, saying things like, “This isn’t the answer, sir,” and, “Can’t we talk this out?”
And Leo. Leo stood just inside the doorway, next to the guy holding the gun. With the gun pressed against his rib cage.
As I took it all in, three pairs of eyes reached out to me. And what I saw in my friends’ faces surprised me. It wasn’t as much fear as it was love. Love for me.
And in that moment I realized family isn’t necessarily who you live with.
Family isn’t necessarily the ones you wake up to every morning.
Family isn’t necessarily the one you cook for night after night, without even a simple thanks.
Family is the person who makes you a scarf for Christmas.
The person who says, “I’m glad you’re back. We missed you yesterday.”
The person who arranges opportunities to meet wonderful people who can give you a new perspective on life.
Three of these people were my family. And I promised myself I couldn’t let anything happen to them.
“Well, look who’s here,” Dean said, clearly loving the power he held over us. “Welcome to the party, Rae. I’m glad you’re here. You can make up for ignoring my pleas for help this morning and bag some cash for me. These coworkers of yours seem to have trouble following instructio
ns. But you know me, don’t you? When I tell you to do something, you sure as hell better do it.”
“Where’s my grandma’s ring, Dean? I want it back.”
He moved the gun off Leo, took a few steps, and pointed it at me. “Don’t think I won’t do it,” he growled. “It’s gone. Now let’s focus on what we need to do here.” Leo was now out of Dean’s full line of sight, so Leo took the opportunity to ease the phone out of his pocket.
My mind was spinning. I had to say the shop’s name. If a dispatcher came on the line, she’d need our location. They might be able to trace the call, but that would take a long time.
“This doesn’t make a lot of sense, Dean. Are you really so desperate that you’re stealing from Full Bloom? A tiny flower shop? We don’t get a lot of cash. Wouldn’t a bank have been a better choice?”
“Banks are prepared for robberies. But a place like this”—he waved his gun around—“I figured I could just walk in, take some cash, and walk out. Except you’re talking too damn much!” Now he pointed the gun at my face. “Get over there and get me some money. Right. Now.”
I didn’t move. The only sound I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the wall. Dean, clearly exasperated, turned the gun toward Spencer as he walked to the counter. My hands flew to my mouth as fear gripped my racing heart.
“Okay, okay,” I said as I somehow managed to make my shaking legs move. “Put your gun down, and I’ll get you the money. I can’t do it with you waving that thing around.”
I thought of all those times I’d followed his orders. Dinner at six thirty on the dot. Handing over my checks on payday. Lending him my truck more times than I could count. Something always told me to do as he said, even when I didn’t want to. When I hated doing it with every fiber of my being.
Now I knew why. It all led to this moment. Right here.