Haiku about a Tortilla Chip

 A while back, we were shaking our heads at something our mother did. She had a sore throat. And after questioning and the doctor looking down her throat, we found out that Mom was eating Doritos and a piece scratched her throat. When I heard this I thought, "Only Mom." It gave us a chuckle. Well, today, I took Mom to lunch and we had tortilla chips with our meal. Guess what? we were enjoying our food when all of a sudden there was a sharp pain in my throat. Yes! A sharp piece of tortilla chip was trying to puncture my esophagus! Wow, did it hurt! Every time I tried to swallow, it jabbed me. I drank some lemonade and it finally gave up the fight. Now, I have a sore throat. Every time I swallow it hurts. And I am reminded that half of my blood is my mother's. 

I was on an errand, wincing from my sore throat,  I got thinking. There has been many, many times when I wondered how on earth am I her daughter? We are so different. We don't even look alike. At least I don't see any similarities--not like I see in my sisters. She has an extremely green thumb; Me? No, but I wish. She loves being out in the hot weather; I'm uncomfortable when it's above 85 degrees.  She can be very outgoing; I tend to be on the quiet side. She's tidy; I lean toward the unorganized. Mom loves to dress up and wear makeup; give me my jammies and slippers any time. The list goes on and on. In the car, I asked myself, well how are we similar? What did I get from my mom? I composed a list in my head. She gave me the joy of crocheting. She gave me some of my depression and anxiety. She gave me the gift of being able to make a good pot of rice. She gave me my strong teeth.  She gave me the ability to laugh at myself. She gave me the desire for a great deal. She gave me strength to endure under much stress. Oh, I love my mom so much! I love the things I received from her. 

Tonight I write my haiku, about that dang piece of tortilla chip that reminds me that I am from my mother, and as hard as it is to admit: For good or bad, sometimes I say, "My mother, myself."

 Each swallow tells me

"You are your mother's daughter."

And I answer. "Ouch."

Haiku about My Nephew, Oliver

It's been two weeks since my beautiful nephew died. One week since his funeral. I recognize that I am trying to accept this new sadness, this addition to myself I have to agree to live with. It is becoming a part of who I call "me." Two weeks without Oliver physically with us. The sadness at times is immense.

And yet, I found myself singing in the shower this evening. It's been a long time since I've done that. A very long time.  And I ask, how? How can we live with it? To live with "losing" our Oliver. To live with only being allowed to see him in our minds' eyes and in the hundreds of still pictures. It is not enough, will never be enough. We ache to touch him, and to hear his voice, and to have his eyes meet ours. What a surprise it was when I heard my own voice singing. It seems impossible that I was singing in the shower. What a content thing to do. The words to this song that we sang often at mass when I was a child was coming out of my mouth as I poured conditioner into the palm of my hand. And I felt that it will be alright. Even with this heavy addition to my emotional map.

Tonight, I write a haiku, inspired by my dear little nephew, Oliver, whose acknowledgement of his happiness and whose joy of living in the moment has become something I admire and will strive to do often, regardless of what has  happened and what may be coming around the corner.

Yesterday is done.

Don't fret about Tomorrow.

Right Now is what counts.