Fostering

After he had left

I looked around the bright,

Sunny space

he had given up, and 

I looked at the mess 

he had left behind

Some of my 

most important things

were smashed, 

and some of his 

most valuable items 

were abandoned.

So I slowly started 

to pick it all up.

It was too much to hold.

So then I began to 

throw some stuff in the trash 

that I knew 

I didn’t want 

anymore. 

I made a pile of his things 

and I would, 

every now and then, 

go upset 

the mound of it 

and yell. 

I’d yell 

and yell 

as I righted it 

again, 

too.

I began to try 

and salvage 

some of my things. 

Just when I thought 

they were fixed, 

they’d crumble 

in my hands. 

This, too, 

would make me angry 

because angry was easier 

than sad. 

I would go to throw out 

all that was broken 

and then would stop, 

not wanting to believe 

they had to go.

It would just need time.

Then I could fix it.

Sometimes,

I would take

one or two items

from his pile and

bring them to him

to see if

he wanted them.

He would shrug 

and say, thanks.

But when I would go to leave

I would notice

they were back 

with me

Instead.

And time and again,

I would try to deliver 

some of the things again,

not giving up, 

and always would 

return home with them.

He knew they were here.

One day,

quiet and thoughtful, 

I decided to try one more go 

at fixing my very important 

and broken things. 

I patiently fitted pieces. 

I looked at what was coming together

and would make small adjustments. 

Then I saw 

what would no longer fit 

and put those aside. 

Over time, 

what I created 

was something new. 

It wasn’t the 

important 

original thing 

and, looking at it, 

it wasn’t 

all together 

unfamiliar to me. 

It wasn’t what I expected 

nor what I was used to. 

It was here, 

though, 

in my hands. 

In front of me. 

And so I kept it.

 

My Name '24

My name is Kathleen which means “pure” and “clear”. I believe that may be how most see me as I keep my face up out of my muck in public- a lotus trying to reach the sun.

My true name, Kate, sounds like a firm and reassuring handshake, and my full name, Kate Burke, sounds like two belts of laughter as one is caught off guard by an unexpected joy.

My name comes from my brother as my parents were not expecting to need a female name- a girl after four boys. My gender was a surprise.

My oldest brother named me Kate and my mom protected it, making it formally Kathleen instead of Katharine, to be sure I wasn’t named after her mother in law who always made sure my mom knew that she didn’t like her son’s choice of a bride.

My name comes from Ireland and I have been there twice. Once with my Burke family- with brothers and laughs and walks with my Da in soft air. Another time I went with my Laird family the Summer just after my Da died, and my memories from that are of tight child squeezes, blustery hills that called my name and solidified I was Viking, Celt, and a romantic.

My Da used to make my name both very short and very long and just thinking about that makes me miss his voice and his easy love for me so I am going to stop thinking.

My original name is legally returning to me soon. I lost it for quite a bit, though could feel it knocking about in there. I’m using it illegally now because I have always been a little bit rebellious. It comes from the copper wires of my hair, now turning gray.

100 Word Stories

 100- Da

I left the kitchen since he didn’t know who I was. The tears were coming and they would just confuse him, so I ducked into the next room. There, I began to openly cry because being forgotten by your Dad is too much to bear, even as an adult.

I was startled when he entered the room. I looked up as I tried to dry my face and adjust my expression. It was then that something passed through his eyes. Some recognition of who I was to him.

“I helped you,” he said.

“I helped you when you would cry”.

100- Bird

I drove one very cold night to get my son from work. The late day melancholy set in with a song and dark road. I rose from my thoughts by the sight of a bird heading for my windshield, her breast lit up by my car’s headlights. She veered and I could hear talons scrape my roof. 

“Little bird, what’re you doing?” I asked, surprising myself with my voice, wondering if her feet were grappling to escape or hold on to my car. Probably, it was both, right? We want to hold on and be free at the same time. 

100- Owen

There was a small hall that separated our rooms

and 13 months that separated our births. 

We always shared a small window of space. 

We fought, we laughed, we defended, we shared. 

And then one day he took the big, pink clock-on-a-rope

from my shower and became 

Flavor Flave, 

every night, 

at my bedtime. 

And the only way to get him to leave was to say

“Good night, Owen”.

Not “Good night”,

not “Get out”,

not anything else but

“Good night, Owen”.

I had to say his name.

I never understood why 

and I have never asked.

100- Defining Love

When you tell me you love me, 

I oscillate between 

believing it 

because it’s what you think love is, 

and not believing it 

because it’s not what love is. 

Can it be love if it’s not what we want, 

and is it love because it’s declared to be?

That’s my mind’s work

while my heart tries to read the truth 

from your mouth and your eyes. 

And isn’t it all forgiven in the end, anyway? 

Since that’s just what I do? 

Always the fool 

trying to demonstrate love 

to someone else who knows 

how to make it serve only them. 

100- Waiting

When I went back into the hospital to see him, I had the dreaded wait for the double doors to open after announcing myself. I always felt the most anxious to be with him when I was in the building, and that was when someone else controlled my time. 

When the delay became longer than usual that day, I knew something was different, probably wrong, and the double doors just stared back at me, blankly, reminding me that I was powerless. When someone came out to tell me that he was taken away, I knew I didn’t have a say.

Second Hand Love

 
When I was first married,
I made my husband lunches 
to take to work.
After a while 
he started to throw them out
instead of eating them.
He wanted something better.
His co-worker said,
“Don’t throw them out,
give them to me.”
So he did.

When I was near the end of my marriage,

I had been asking all the years

for some company 

in the morning.

Every now and then,

my husband would agree.

And then he stopped

because he wanted to sleep.

Our foster said,

“I’ll take the morning hours with you,

I will give up sleep.”

So he did.

My husband became angry,

and I am not exactly sure 

what all that was about.

What I do know is that

my acts of love were trash

and my company was important 

to a boy.

And maybe my then husband

could not swallow

what he had thrown away.