A Foreigner's Tale

Her father, a gentleman, wrapped up in grace,
Self-made resilience engraved in his face.
A man of few words, but the kind that land strong,
Dad raised her to heights where he knew she belongs.

Her mother loved hard in a tightening way,
Culling the herd with the choices she made.
Emotions got laundered, starched and then pressed,
When weaknesses were mistaken for tenderness.

So she became polished, impeccably clean,
As the girl least likely to disrupt the scene.
Beautiful composure, immaculate nerve,
Her heart came to earn what it didn’t deserve.

Then tragedy struck like a debt at the door,
Cold, painful syllables no one’s prepared for.
White walls, thin gowns, the prickly sting,
Of hearing her future reduced to a screen.

She survived that then endured something worse:
A union so lonely it moved like a hearse.
Kids in the backseat, bills on the dash,
Destination confined to one point on the map.

Still she kept living and fighting her war,
Won every battle then walked out the door.
Healthy and strong, self-awareness intact,
A life never wanted no longer holds her back.

Repression is cruel in the cleverest way,
What’s denied doesn’t die, it just lies in wait.
And now all the numbness she carried with pride,
Collapsed on itself and released what’s inside.

That’s when her life finally started to bloom,
Perfectly imperfect truth given room.
Now joy animates her, happiness unlocked,
With no grief to haunt her

she cries

a lot.

— Tami Jo Urban