When I was born, I was given a genocide. I was also given a dear dead uncle who had killed, and been killed, in war. I was given simplicity, poverty, hunger, and joy. I was given anger and disappointment. I was given pride and competition. I was given physical and psychological pain. I was given fear. I was given honesty. I was given laughter. I was given play.
I grew into all of the things I was given, only to learn that I needed to grow out of most of them. Along the way, I gave them in a somewhat softened, diluted form to the four children I helped bring into the world. The burden was less, but it was still there.
Now it is a matter of patience and love, and of living in a way that makes letting go easier for all of us, including those who have passed on, and who died while still carrying and clinging to their burden. For they, too, are part of us, and live on in us. They, too, need peace, love, freedom, and understanding. And the only way we can give it to them is by recognizing, loving, and letting go of that part of the burden that remains in ourselves. And by doing so, we will help lessen pain and suffering in this world.
November 5, 2021
My uncle’s shoe polish
from the army.
His stripes and hat
and purple heart.
His letters home.
When I think what would happen to her if I don’t … I …
A picture of a cross in Italy.
Songs and Letters, June 20, 2009
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Songs and Letters
Tags: Anger, Diaries, Fear, Freedom, Genocide, Honesty, Hunger, Identity, Italy, Journals, Joy, Laughter, Love, Memory, My Uncles, Pain, Patience, Peace, Poems, Poetry, Poverty, Simplicity, Sorrow, Suffering, Understanding, War