I know terror. I have known it all my life, and I tire of it.
I knew terror lying on the cold cement locked in the work shed just before Christmas the year I was three going on four. So precocious and imaginative, they said. So soon terrified that they did not believe me, I secretly packed a suitcase with my favorite and most treasured possessions, certain the angels would come to carry me back to God – even then I knew I belonged to God. I checked and double-checked the suitcase often, holding onto it through the years as a symbol of hope. I saw it the other day, up in the attic.
I knew terror in the pillow smashed over my face and held in place while… I don’t remember what happened that night when I was nine. Only that I could not breathe. And never again as easy. A Chicago heat wave and we had no air. Of course the heat must be getting to her. It’s got to be that. I knew terror in the cold Kentucky night when I stood talking to a stranger, unable to remember how I had arrived ninety miles from home in the middle of the night. And I knew terror when I arrived home again to find what I found.
I knew terror when you, my friend, looked at me (or was it through me?) and told me I was no friend at all. And then when you looked at me (or was it into me?) and said nothing for so long, breaking my heart with your love.
I know terror when I think that I will not be enough, that you will be the last to deem me so and shove me out of your life. I have known terror reeling toward the hell of echoes and emptiness, endlessly falling toward that pit I know so well. My suitcase is always packed, but the angels - they seem so far away.
I guess no sorrow ever escaped my heart as the words in this poem brought forth.
Reviewed by D May (Reader)
Reviewed on September 30, 2004
Dawn--this is a very brave write and I salute you with the utmost respect for writing this. Talking and writing about these things is where the healing comes from. You are beautiful and your heart is untouched, unscarred and loving.
Dawn this is top-notch prose with a story/message that evokes anger,at the cause and sorrow for the abused child. Enough so to make normal parents want to scream epithets at the abuser,and see them punished. If this is part of your, I know you know the only answer is in the Lord helping you erase those tapes and replace them with his love. He is merciful and just to do it, though it may sometimes take so long a person thinks it's hopeless. That's why keeping the faith is so important. My best hopes and prayers are with you.
Excellent prose poem. Child abuse is a heinous crime and most don't understand that those early terrifying experiences will follow that child forever. It is a misguided conception to think children 'forget' -- they don't. Child abuse is a life sentence for the child, and because it is, it should carry the maximum penalty regardless of what was done. Your poem carries its message with strength. Great job, Dawn.
I hope it's just a write.
It always bothers me to hear/see/read about a child
being abused. And I'm sure to them, the angels really do
seem too far away.
Well written piece Dawn.
Lisa
Reviewed by Thomas Lanechanger (Reader)
Reviewed on September 30, 2004
Wow! Absolutely chilling! I’m stunned! Excellent work Dawn. Take care and be well.
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Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
*shivers* and we experienced it vividly through your eyes--WOW
*tears* i'm sorry you went through this--keep writing, it will help
(((HUGS))) and love, karla.
you are a survivor :)
Carmen
It always bothers me to hear/see/read about a child
being abused. And I'm sure to them, the angels really do
seem too far away.
Well written piece Dawn.
Lisa
Feel the chill in this piece...
Peter