One Day, Somehow (A Promise for a Grieving Friend)


A poem to encourage a grieving friend

 

One day, somehow, you will smile again.

One day, somehow, you will laugh again.

One day you will smile and laugh,

without the ache of haunted memory,

the insistent voice accusing,

You’re not supposed to be happy. Not yet. Not ever.

 

One day you will feel a little like your old self again—

not the same,

never exactly the same,

but still, somehow, you.

One day you will look to the future and see light,

and hope,

and the kind of tomorrows you want to live in.

One day—someday—somehow, you will.

Maybe sooner than you think.

 

But as we wait for that day, know that

I pray for you,

I wait with you,

I hurt with you.

If you want me to, I will walk these dark days with you,

the ones without smiles and laughter and sunshine.

I’ll share the sorrow, the silence, the shadow,

as long as it takes.

We can talk or not talk,

as long as you need.

 

One day you will wake to a day less dim.

And when you are ready to step into the light,

I’ll share that day too.

Remind you to wear shades, if at first the light hurts your eyes.

Hold your hand—maybe even tell jokes—while you relearn how to walk in full sun.

 

And one day, my friend, you’ll do the same for me.

One day.

One Day, Somehow by Elizabeth Laing Thompson

 


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Little Things


savoring childhood via @lizzylit

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

It’s the little things I love the most,
the little things that make the good life good.

It’s brushing fingers with the boy-turned-man
I once begged God to turn my way,
and he smiles, twinkle-eyed,
and it’s still all for me,
and still my heart stands still.

It’s miniature pajamas hanging in an empty closet,
waiting,
and I never thought we’d have someone to wear them.

It’s the delightful exasperation of
folding tiny mismatched socks
I thought I’d only buy for friends.

It’s my chubby alarm clock waddling in,
well before the dawn,
lisping, “Mommy, can I snuggle you?”
In she climbs, and she smells like strawberries
and promise.

It’s a victory dance for that first-time triumph;
it’s a wacky dance
just ’cause we feel like dancing
and the sillier we look,
and the faster we spin,
and the harder we laugh,
the better it feels.

It’s a monkey squeeze from a blue-eyed boy
who still begs Mommy to carry him,
and I’ll do it till my arms fall off
—which they may—
because I know it will end soon.

It’s the welcome sinking of the sun—just barely night—
and I’m so weary I can hardly cross
the toy-nado zone
to collapse and prop up my aching feet,
but as I close my eyes,
I groan a prayer of thanks,
and drink it in,
and promise never to forget,
never to squander
these little things.


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If you enjoyed this poem, you might also enjoy:

First Dance

Freeze-Frame

These Days of Small Things

You Can Go Now, Mommy

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Now I Lay Her Down to Sleep (the Honest Version)


Please, God, make this baby sleep


Now I Lay Her Down to Sleep

(the Honest Version)

 

Now I lay her down to sleep,

I beg the Lord, “Eight hours, please!

May angels watch her through the night,

and keep her eyelids sealed up tight.

If she should cry before I wake,

just once, Lord, let the monitor break.” 

 

Wishing all my fellow parents eight hours of undisturbed sleep—tonight and every night . . .

Elizabeth Laing Thompson signature

P.S. Photo credit goes to my friend Julie Moon, who is not only a talented photographer, but an organizing genius who blogs at Neat & Pretty.


In case you want to pin this, or share it with a fellow sleep-deprived mom . . . here are graphics of a boy version and girl version of this poem! Happy sleeping.

Now I Lay Him Down to Sleep (The Honest Version-Boy) - when babies won't sleep

Now I Lay Her Down to Sleep (The Honest Version-Girl)-baby sleep schedules


Freeze-Frame


Freeze-frame

Across the room you catch my eye,
bouncy curls bobbing, glinting sun,
chubby hands clutching, waving spoon,
secret laugh bubbling, casting joy,
and I want to stop time,
freeze-frame your innocence,
your toddlerhood,
this moment,
forever.

So I try.

I pick up the camera.
Snap.
Reframe.
Zoom.
Adjust the lighting.
Try another angle.
Snap again
and again
and again.

But I cannot capture
the way the fading sun fingers your golden curls,
painting a second sunset in my kitchen;
the way the twinkle in your honey eyes sparks,
and I see my grandmother winking there;
the way your coy giggle spins and curls and winds
across the room, around my heart.

At last, suddenly wiser, I stop trying.

I put down the camera,
and sit down across from you,
and drink you in,
and share your secret joke,
and we laugh,
and I know, somehow,
that I have finally caught the moment,
and my heart will always remember.

poetry about motherhood


Fun Friday Post: Bouquet


a child's bouquet

Bouquet

Elizabeth Laing Thompson

Weeds upon my windowsill,

tickled by a breeze,

gifts from chubby, grubby hands,

picked with pride for me.

Bruised by clumsy, eager fists,

petals all askew,

still they bob and wink and wave

and whisper, “She loves you.”

 

Poetry for mothers...when children pick flowers

 

When children pick flowers