Freyda's Poem

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?”

And, daringly:

“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

black sharpie.

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

“more.”

What is the opposite of abandonment?

Is it this?

~

I decided to call her, Freyda.

It means, joy.

~

I think:

If we want to know joy,

we can find our way home.

Anyway, that’s my hope.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Truth and Beauty: Poems on the Nature of Our Humanity"

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