I wrote this poem during my high school days when I was in my third depression, and when I found what an incredible healing tool writing could be. The 14th stanza (I’ve put it in bold.) has become a mantra for me when life splits at the seams.
(Woab! I just had a metacognition flash typing that paragraph: The act of finding something beautiful in a terrible time reflects the poem’s message itself. I found writing in my depression. [Oh, the isometric beauty!])
My son who is Japanese My son who is American Who is both and neither, because he is himself Mommy`s treasure whose hair is rabbit-silk Whose uncle nicknamed him Tater and it stuck, so now he’s my little Tater Tot and Potato too Whose laugh is bright and sparkles Who has his daddy’s oriental eyes and surprisingly mommy’s occidental coloring Seeing me in the doorway, clambers over, mouth wide in endearing honest elation And whines until I pick him up because his gums hurt Who has one tooth Who steals my sleep but gives me the drive to get up again and again and yet again Who is the reason I work and the reason I want to be home Who’s my shadow and whose snow-tread-crunch like diaper is my soundtrack Talks with “Ba`s” and “Woo who uh`s,” but communicates with his eyes My son who was in my body Who will be in my arms tonight, Is often on my mind And always in my heart My son who is loved