Take it to the limit, one more time. ―The Eagles
She taught me to rumba, to pick a partner from the crowd,
to coax him to the floor, to move carefree and wild, like water
on a hot griddle, laughing all the while. She taught me to show up
and show off. To star. (Even in family photographs, she stood out,
her dark corkscrew curls, her big brown eyes, playful, inviting,
her charisma coloring the card stock.) She taught me big. Big
hair, big ideas, big heart. To climb into bed with the dying,
to stroke their faces, to caress with kisses even when the verdict
is out on the disease’s power to transmit. She taught me to fancy
mustard greens and collards and Krispy Kreme and Diet Coke.
To believe in yourself when, like an exploding soda can,
the world spits and spews no, can’t, impossible, it won’t happen
and then to watch the miracle manifest itself a thousand times
in a tiny village in Africa or in the heart of a special needs
teenage son. She taught me to borrow your sister’s panties
and to suffer the consequences. To croon Patsy Cline and to record
yourself in make-shift studio or at Six Flags. To commune with
The Creator on the beach when life barrels toward you,
the container heavy with loss and grief. She taught me to care and care
and then to care a little more. Because loss had opened her to love.
Published: Heart of Flesh, 2021