My dear friend Lauren Scurty from high school wrote this…
I wrote this poem on July 7 after dropping my daughters off at a sleep away camp in East Texas. Expression of grief is a funny thing. It must be expressed lest you be stuck with it, crushed by it. The expression of grief is not for others, but for yourself. Posting this is for my own attempt to stand up under my grief. I just hope it finds the hearts that are needing to read it.
Into the Mystic
The haunting Texas heat ushers in summer faster than spring can whisper goodbye.
Weeks of wonderment approaching bring with it personalized painted trunks packed with tiny treasures…reminders of home
One last hug, and one more hug followed by a kiss on the forehead.
A mother feels an invisible string slip like silk through her palm as she turns away-resisting the ache to hold on tight.
A father watches his daughter watch him leave enthralled by the adventures that lie ahead for her.
She is ushered into the Bubble Inn faster than she can whisper goodbye.
Prestamped stationery and lovies, nicely tucked away in cubbies
The feeling of longing washed away by the rush of joy pouring from each teenage counselor.
Excited for their new-found independence, ribbons of laughter trail behind little girls as they run into the Mystic.
Relieved parents drive away, soaking in the stillness of a childless car.
They speak softly, already mapping out the month ahead- knowing it will pass as quickly as the Texas heat rolled in.
A mother looks out the car window onto the vast Texas landscape.
Normalcy exits the scene
Without parental permission winds usher in uninvitedly
Taking a seat at a table that is yet to be set
The river does not ask
It rages with no warning
A wave of fear rushes in, drowning out the joy of the Bubble Inn.
Although prayers rise faster than the waters
Disaster ensues swallowing its surroundings faster than they can whisper goodbye.
A mother feels the invisible string slip like silk through her palm, the end of the rope…tightening her grip she feels it escape in slow motion.
A father watches his daughter watch him leave…on replay in his mind.
Reeling faster than he can whisper goodbye.
But Iike the waters, they too will rise.
Clenching the invisible string of hope grounding them like an anchor.
Waters reside, but their focus is now on higher ground.
The Bubble Inn opens to streets of Gold.
Baptized into the arms of Jesus, green ribbons of laughter trail behind the little girls as they run into the Mystic.
**Written in honor of Chloe Childress, Margaret Bellows, Lila Bonner, Mary Stevens, Janie Hunt, Eloise Peck, Lainey Landry, Sarah Marsh, Renee Smajstrla, Wynne Naylor, Linnie McCown, Abby Pohl, Ellen Getten, Molly DeWitt, and Katherine Feruzzo. I know that the loss extends SO FAR beyond that including Jan Ragsdale, Officer Bailey Martin, and literally hundreds of others. The Bubble Inn is where my heart stopped, and grief took over. This is just the beginning of my heart processing this loss. This devastation is bigger than race and politics, and ones' expression of grief should not be picked apart as such.
