Stolen moment

while all lovers of pumpkin
their long awaited spiced zest
i brew my first fall cuppa 
steamed apple cinnamon smacks my lips
despite that my first love
is homemade french-pressed dark roast
i stand wholehearted 
on the edge of the afternoon Light
we are intimately involved at the moment 
her golden embrace 
reminiscent of the Pohick natives
who revered this same Sun and season
i surrender and fall into myself 
and seal my wishful practice


Good mourning

Friday night, my phone blows up with text messages along with social media. RBG dead. Text after text, we're f&^%$#! Already living day after day with that doomed feeling while struggling to be hopeful, another wave of dread sets in. 

Before bedtime, N. finds RBG in her Rebel Girls book volume and grabs a pen to mark her death date since it's not indicated on the page. September 18, 2020. 

I try to sleep.

Saturday morning, we've planned for a trek on an unfamiliar trail. My eight-year-old reminds me, I thought you were going to wear your RBG tshirt. 

That's right! I change from my "I Am Strong" to RBG and "Never underestimate the power of a girl with a book." 

During the drive, our family chats about Dump 2020, and I well up wondering how much my girl will remember of this year. Covid, family deaths, distance learning, Dump, RBG. What else? The year's not over yet. We arrive and immerse ourselves in a woodsbath that also winds along a farm with horses, sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, peacocks, a bunny and a cat. I'm in search of the small waterfall that I read about online. Barely anyone on the trail, we run into a South Asian elder and ask where the waterfall might be. He shares that he knows of no waterfall, but a quaint clearing up ahead at the end of the stream. 

No waterfall?! Disappointment sets in. Again. 

No one else is around. We take off our masks and soak in the sound of the stream, the tree oil, and the crisp morning air.

Deep breaths. It's okay. I'm grateful we're healthy and together on a Saturday morning. 

Good mourning.

Before I co-teach an afternoon mindfulness session, N. and I watch the RBG documentary. I'm intent on making sure N. knows who RBG is. N. asks, Why are you crying, Mom? 

Because RBG was an amazingly smart and strong warrior woman who exuded social justice and had such an impact in our world. Because she is someone you can look up to, N. 


30th Day August

This day, every year, I comb through photo albums in search of photos of us, you and me as a young child. Sadly, there aren’t too many, the few blurred pictures that

St. Joseph's Church
create what delicate memories I have. I recounted to N. what this morning was like twelve years ago. Today is the day that your Lolo died, and we especially remember him today. Like the movie Coco. She asks, Can we place his picture on the altar?

It was the one time we decided to sleep at our home in need of a short respite as we were on death watch for the past almost three weeks. Early morning, Mom called, Come now. A. and I raced down the turnpike in silence. I’d been doing this drive back and forth between my parents’ and ours for a while now.

Nunda Ave.
The time to say goodbye had arrived. 

Deeply grateful that you chose to die on your own terms. Having stopped all treatment, dying at home and prepared to brave infinite life beyond the stars. 

A toast to you, Dad.