Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
She was walking along the country road,
plodding with sullen eyes that, upon my
arrival, lifted, somewhat, and asked:
“Is this more pain coming?”
“Could it be hope?”
My open palm offered her the kibble
that I keep on hand, in a jar in the truck,
for just these moments. They are often
enough. She took it into her jutting ribs,
and then went for the pile I put on the
passenger seat. That was my hope.
That’s how our story started.
There’s some part of me that understands
the texture of abandonment better than
most things. I could tell you stories, but
I can’t explain it to you. It’s one of those
tangible mysteries that defines us.
We are the legacy of the dispossessed.
What makes a being disposable?
I wonder about this when I pick a dog up
on a winding country road, although, sometimes,
it is a cat, or several. And, too, there are the
men with cardboard signs on the street corners,
all having written imploring words with a thick
Once, it was two young women. We talked.
They had abandoned themselves. They said:
“It is less painful this way.”
Rumi wrote to his beloved that:
I want to see you.
Know your voice.
Recognize you when you
first come ‘round the corner.
And, then went on to add:
I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
What is the opposite of abandonment?
Is it this?
I decided to call her, Freyda.
It means, joy.
If we want to know joy,
we can find our way home.
Anyway, that’s my hope.
©2017-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)
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