I Meant to Tell You

I meant to tell you--before I forget:
I remember when you were born.

I remember laying my cheek on mom's
round tummy and trying to tell tell you
to move.

I remember you were born
while I was sick so I couldn't hold you at first
then you were a baby and
mom was pregnant again.

I remember you loved carrot mush.  I fed you
and your face turned orange.

I thought you were
my baby doll
you were a vivacious
little girl.

I remember when we both took dance lessons
And I loved it and
You hated it.

We are so very different
We are very much the same.
We always seemed so very far apart in age
You said you didn't want to be like me--you
wanted to be like Ryan
You didn't mean to hurt my feelings.

When I tried to tell you what to do
you always listened--because I was older.
I didn't understand
you were growing, but
You stopped listening.

The first time you went alone to a swing dance
you wore make-up and curled your hair
you wore a skirt and form-fitting shirt
you talked of boys and dancing and
you weren't a little girl.

That day I realized
you had grown up.

You said you were becoming your own person
I'm glad to find it's true
You've become lovely, vivacious and full of fun.
You're brilliant and gentle too.

We will never be the same person
I am glad.
I can't be friends with a clone. But
I can be friends with you.

It was a while ago...
But I remember when you were small
And all the years we spent together
I meant to tell you that.

It Did Not Always Stay So

It did not always stay so;
but I am glad it happened.

I was a just a girl--you
were just a boy
But you treated me
like a lady.

You taught me
to question
the things I thought I knew.
I taught you
you weren't always
right.

Strong-willed, stubborn
We both were.
But for you
and for that time
I am grateful.

I am . . . Ms. Ferkel

I am Ms. Ferkel but not for much longer
I am a St. Louis city girl who loves to go camping
I am a dancer at heart no matter how out of shape I become
an admirer of art and long walks in the dusk
a lover of music though I can't create it
at sometimes simple and others creative

I am the oldest of four and all that comes with it
Responsible, competitive, and motherly
I am a student teacher which is such an odd combination
To be student and also teacher all at one time

I am a 27 hour plane ride to an exotic country
I am a memory of the faces of abandoned children laughing with joy
I am a motorcycle ride through the crowded streets of a dirty city

I am a 25-year-old ski boat falling apart but dearly loved and full of memories
I am a digital SLR camera with multiple memory cards of pictures
I am a journal by my bedside table and a couple old books
I am a friend, daughter, sister, RA, teacher, student, mentor, employee, and more
For now, I am Ms. Ferkel but not for much longer

My Dupatta

My Dupatta

It is a silky blue with crystals lining the edge—sheer, seductive, and elegant. It is a splash of vibrant color in the midst of a sea of murky brown.  Dirt.  Dirt is everywhere in that city and swathes everything with its colorless grime.  In a city where starving, muddy cows roam the streets with their rib cages protruding, the splash of color is breathtaking.  In a place where car horns never stop and barefoot children pull on your dress pleading for food, the women in the dupattas are strong.  There is a deep beauty in the eyes framed by the silk.

I see an old woman with tan, leathery skin wrinkled in every possible place.  She is peering in my car window holding her hand to her ancient mouth.  Food.  She needs food.  Her bare arms glitter with gold bracelets and a vibrant strip of silk contrasts the darkness of her skin as it drapes over her head and around her shoulders.  Her eyes are hollow, pleading.  It is just a moment before the taxi is moving, and I can no longer see the woman.  But her image is burned in my head—the leathery face framed by that vibrant silk against the backdrop of the dirty city. 

I see a young girl, probably eighteen, full of life and vitality.  Her entire head is covered in white silk including her face so that all I can see are a pair of deep brown eyes.  Her form-fitting shirt and skinny jeans mixed with the full head covering represent the world she lives in with its collision of old and new.  The old religion, the old India, the old way of life, is in the white dupatta that masks her face and hides her mouth from the world.  But her eyes have life and independence.  She walks by in her skinny-jeans jumping comfortably onto a motorcycle, and she zooms out of sight, her silky white dupatta waving in the dusty air.

I see a woman at a train station.  She is probably in her mid-twenties.  Her arms gently cradle a naked baby.  As each person passes, she reaches out a hand, asking for money.  Her dark arm contrasts with the brilliant pink and gold material draped around her head.  The child hasn’t moved, but its arms are little more than sticks while its stomach is swollen to almost twice the size of its head.  Worms.  The dark arm reaches out once again asking, pleading for money.  None is given, and she retreats to a corner to hide from the excruciating sun.  There is not enough shade at noon, so she takes an edge of the gold and pink silk from around her shoulders and drapes it gently over the child’s face to hide it from the merciless sun.  She is wrapped in elegance leaning against a grimy concrete wall on a train platform covered in trash. 

When I see my dupatta, I see humanity.  I see old; I see young.  I see vibrancy, strength and beauty standing out like a soft pink rose surrounded by blackened ashes.