I’ve been encouraged to share more of my writing, and even to get published. I don’t know about the publishing thing, especially because of cost and the fact that in order to sell books as a poet, one needs to be 1. Maya Angelou, 2. Nikki Giovanni, or 3. Deceased. But I thought I’d share something I wrote that’s very personal, and I consider it one of the most important things I’ve ever done. The story is true.
This Was Not 10/29/09
Standing at the work table,
I’m off drifting in my brain.
My body knows what it’s doing,
And the mind has its own way
Of passing time.
I remember many things
While standing at my table.
My hands have done these tasks for years,
So the memories flow unbidden
Into the waiting silence.
I remember buying you cheap toys
For your eighth birthday,
Your first back in Jersey.
It was all we could afford
After eight months of medical bills
And your mother out of work.
One broke that very evening,
And I was so scared you’d be upset.
It didn’t seem to faze you,
But I’d wanted so much more
For you
After the SHIT
That had become of that year.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
I leave my table, the work abandoned,
As I need to dry my eyes.
But my synapses decide
Upon my return
That they’re not done just yet.
I remember being asked
In one of the Fairmount family groups,
What my biggest fear for you was.
You hadn’t been HOME,
Residing in centers
For traumatized children
For most of the year.
This was where you’d spend
Your NEXT birthday.
My answer was that all this
Would still be going on
And you’d lose the last years
Of the closing window
Of your childhood
Without getting to have
A normal one.
I remember helping you move
From there to your third center,
And eventually to your fourth,
All within two years.
It was at the fourth one
Where you’d turn
The ripe old age
Of ten.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
I remember the times before this,
When you told us
Things,
Things your biological father did to you.
We decided that
When you came off the school bus
You would be given dinner,
And some things would be packed
For you and your mother.
I’d stay behind to pack our things
And arrange for the movers.
I watched
As you were driven back to Jersey that night
In a February New England blizzard
To save you from your father.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
I remember when
We had just reunited
After the midnight run out of Rhode Island.
You were uncontrollably
Acting out, as we now know
Abuse victims will do,
Because of what your father did to you.
The daily and nightly rages,
Triggered by flashbacks,
Would eventually require
Restraining you
Because of the harm
You’d cause
To yourself,
And to others.
This became
Your daily experience,
And it was a miracle
When you were actually able
To make it to school.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
I walk away from my table yet again,
Knowing someone will see me
Soon enough.
I tell myself,
“Endure!”,
Wanting desperately to hold it together.
But then I remember
Your mother and I
Reviewing the options given
By the prescribing therapist.
You needed help with the feelings
And the images
In your seven-year-old head.
THIS drug may cause
Kidney failure
After six months of use.
THIS drug may cause
Seizures,
Or other loss
Of motor function.
You have had your
Blood polluted,
Your chemistry FUCKED with,
Because you were worse off
Without these poisons
Meant to help you heal.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
You will soon turn eleven,
And you’re still not home.
You are still not able
To handle the rage,
The flashbacks of your father,
All of the emotional damage,
And I know that window,
That precious window
Of time
Called your formative years
Is gone;
What I feared for you
Has happened,
And I can only cry
At my work table.
This was not the childhood you were supposed to have.
©2012 Jordan Fox
Grasping the Tale of the Fox 