Family, Latino culture, Parenting, poetry

Poetry as a Gift to Ourself

gettyimages-Fraser, Colorado
gettyimages-Fraser, Colorado

I’m really missing my kids who live in Colorado.

It’s hard to believe they are young adults making their own way, not only in another town, but another state. Sometimes I get comments about this fact, “How could you let them go so far…” For many Latino families this just isn’t done. But that’s another story, for another time.

A couple or three weeks ago, the “polar vortex” swept through Colorado. My flight was cancelled and I didn’t make it up there to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. That sucked, but better to be safe than sorry (my daughter’s words).

Last time I was there, in December, I experienced my first snowy Christmas. We took a walk. The air felt frigid, the snow crunchy, my toes had no feeling.

Inside was the best way for a Southern California resident to view the snowfall.

My journal captured some thoughts which I developed into a poem.

Outside My Window

Layers of snow cover

a multitude of sins,

which no longer hover

below the blanket of white.

Cold truths against the light,

making beautiful the wrongs to right,

softens the landscape

against the morning light,

see how things can be made right,

Cushions of snow,

light and fresh,

unmarked drifts of possibilities

to keep the wrongs right,

to begin anew,

erase the dark.

A canvas of white

illuminated against the daylight,

soon to be crushed by black stripes,

criss crossing

making sludge of white

I’m glad I recorded my thoughts. They take me back to sitting at the living room window early in the morning, looking out to the balcony and street below.

Snow layered itself over hedges, trees, and cars. Pretty soon cars started driving by, and the morning woke up.

I made the kids some vegan Mexican hot chocolate which we stirred with cinnamon sticks. The spicy fragrant drink and the heater in the apartment warmed us from the inside out.

Memories about one’s kids are one of the greatest gifts about being a parent.

Poetry is a gift to ourself.