So here it is . . . the pit. Well, I suppose it’s more of a pothole really, but it certainly feels much deeper right now. I don’t even know how I fell into it. One misstep and BLAM! I was on my behind at the bottom scratching my head and wondering how the heck I ended up in here. Looks cozy enough – There’s even a nice little pity pot for me sit upon and mull over the glorious day I’ve had thus far.
So, I am sitting here on the pity pot. It’s actually about the size of a small pool right now, care to join me? There’s plenty of room for two. Watch out though, there are little creatures below just waiting to bite you on the butt. I haven’t yet been pinched by their pearly whites, but the way this day is going I’m fairly certain it will happen soon.
Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details of my plight. I’ll simply say I have good reason for my brooding, at least it seems like a worthy reason at the moment. Tomorrow it may appear trivial as I know something even more dreadful will overshadow today’s events.
So much for optimism hu? My glass is half full, it really is. Unfortunately, someone has replaced it with a dribble glass and positive thinking is doing nothing more than dripping off my chin and staining my shirt.
Oh, if only the sad sound of a sigh could be written. It’s said for every dark cloud looming above there is a silver lining. It looks like tin foil from here which only reminds me the house trolls will be wanting to eat tonight and I will be forced to cook which means I’ll have to claw my way up and out of this wretched little hole and put on a happy face.
I think I might just order pizza and lock myself away in my room for the night, maybe the week. I wish my house had a tower, that would be perfect for a day like this. I could run, sobbing, up the dark, winding staircase and throw myself down upon the beautiful canopy bed at the top of the tower. I know, makes no sense, but there is always a pretty little room at the towers top in the movies, isn’t there?
I doubt my prince charming would saunter in and wake me from my fitful slumber with the sweet kiss of truest love, freeing me forever of my torment and whisk me away into happily ever after though. Nope, not my Romeo. He’d probably forget all about me until he ran out of clean underwear.
I would cry it out, but then I would have a stuffy nose and a headache. I would scream, but the neighbors would think I’m nuts. I know, I know, I’m deluding myself, they all came to that conclusion long ago. I’d pull out my hair, but . . . ouch. I’d break something, but then I’d just have to clean it up and in doing so, would cut myself on a broken piece of whatever it was and bleed to death.
I guess I am doing the only thing I can do, write about nonsense and nothing until I feel better. You know what? I think it’s working. I actually do feel a bit better . . . I still wish I had a tower though. The drama of it all would be so grand.
Tonight will be one of those nights I must end with my knees on the ground and my eyes toward the heavens. He’ll know how to fix it, he always does.
Crystal R. Cook
12, 10, 9, and 4. That is how old my children were on September 11, 2001, the day everything they knew about their world changed.
When my oldest came to tell me something really bad just happened, the look on his face was something I’d never seen before, something I never hope to see again. He was scared and confused. “Something bad has happened mommy, it’s on TV and lots of people are going to be dead now.”
I followed him to the living room as he told me an airplane had an accident and hit a building. When I saw the awful scene playing out on the screen I felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach, how does an accident like this happen?
The second plane hadn’t hit yet.
When it did, I crumbled.
I remember falling to my knees right there in front of the television, still not completely comprehending what was happening, or perhaps I simply didn’t want to.
My children were crying, I don’t know if they really knew why. What they did know, was something was very wrong and very sad. Since they were babies we’ve always whispered a prayer when we hear a siren or see an ambulance or fire truck, God be there, our way of helping those in need I suppose. It’s something my mother did with me and something I have always done with them.
The buildings hadn’t begun to fall yet.
When they did, I forgot how to breathe for a moment.
Through my tears I saw my children, huddled together on the floor in front of the television, heads bowed in silence. As the footage ran and the buildings continued to fall, four little voices called out in prayer, saying “God, please be there.”
Crystal R. Cook
Alrighty friends . . . Please whisper a prayer for safe travels as my son heads off on his first adventure, by himself. I am so proud of him, and nervous. Mostly proud. I remember how anxious I was when he took the city bus for the first time, I may have needed a Xanax when he hopped on the trolley by himself for the first time. Okay, the first several times. Today as he boards the plane, I may need two!
I know he is a man, almost 25 now, but this is monumental. It’s hard to even describe the well of emotions this stirs. I know some of you will relate on a level only a parent with an autistic child can relate, I know you understand the hugeness of what is happening today.
In this moment, I haven’t yet found the words to describe the magnitude of what is taking place, I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to accurately convey the depth of this occasion.
Whisper a prayer for me as well . . .
This poem was written about a little Angel named Morgan. I never saw him, never held him, never heard his voice, but he will always be in my heart. The words were written after a heartbreakingly beautiful phone call I received from my mother.
I could tell she’d been crying by the crack in her voice, her day had taken a direction she’d not expected, it led her right to a little angel, an angel soon to be spreading his wings to fly home.
She went to the hospital that day, for what I can’t recall, but she was there because she was meant to be. As she walked down a hallway, she could hear crying, something within her heart made her turn toward that sound of sorrow.
She stood before an open door, one of countless many, and looked upon a family, her heart could feel their pain. Surrounded by those who loved him was a little boy, Morgan. He was dying. She somehow became a part of this grieving family for a brief moment in time. Little Morgan touched her heart as she held his tiny hand, his family stood in prayer with my mother, a stranger to them, yet they embraced her in that moment.
She sat by Morgan’s bedside and sang to him, her voice filled the room with so much more than song, it brought with it a calm, a moment of respite for a weary family . . . I cannot imagine what it must have felt like to be in that room, beneath the heavy sadness there was a renewed sense of strength and faith. I imagine it would be hard to find beauty during such a time, but they did. Love, compassion, and faith gathered within those walls and wrapped around little Morgan, his family, and my mother, I can’t help but think of beauty when I imagine it.
Today I kissed an angel
I held his broken wings
My voice rang out to little ears
that could not hear me sing
I smiled my best smile
although he could not see
I know inside his precious heart
he was smiling back at me
At first I thought the Lord
chose me to comfort him
as the hope of those he loved
had begun to slowly dim
As I held his little hand
by his bed on bended knee
I caressed his little brow
it was then that he blessed me
He did not speak a word
he lay still and peaceful there
as my tears began to fall
my voice arose in prayer
To look upon the face
of an angel here on earth
to be a part of God’s great work
is a gift of untold worth
I know that every life
serves a purpose great or small
Even the tiniest child
could be here to save us all
A silent piece of me
will never fully understand
I find comfort in the promise
that he’ll rest in God’s own hand
If he takes his twilight breath
before another sun can shine
I will say a prayer of thanks
for I held his hand in mine
Crystal R. Cook