End of the road, by the numbers:
Four girls, 6059 miles, 19 states, the nation’s capital, 7 state parks, 7 national monuments, 9 nights of camping, 2 hotels, 1 apartment, 1 beach house, 29 days… We are HOME!! Life is an adventure. Be your own driver!!
in the man’s big house
they built him a three-room suite;
his children lived here:
remnants of slave life:
hard-hitting and far-reaching
(Black Lives Matter. Now?)
they dug up red clay
to lay every brick … by brick,
by breaking their backs
his famous status:
founder of freedom, writer
(declared our country)
brick by brick by brick
he laid his lies and kept his slaves
and wrote our future
and we swallow it
and throw coins at his gravestone
and try to forgive
they all shared this view–
from the big house; the slave house;
the land formed by God
and so we move on,
brick by brick by road by road
to see its beauty
everyone wins today
with sleeping in and reading books
and me fitting in a bike ride
on the way to the movies
(coastal views, zero elevation,
heat seeping through my new
jersey in a rushed attempt to
meet the time schedule)
and yet it hovers.
my vacation.
my vacation with friendly family,
getting-along-quite-well girls,
ocean views and coral reefs
and the best lake swimming there is
and …
no happy hour.
pedaling across those bridges,
sweating steps in Savannah,
making it through another day,
a blessed, lucky day on this earth…
and no drink to top it off,
to melt the anxiety that comes
with upcoming controversial family,
the stress that will be DC in July,
seeing my father-in-law slowly lose his mind;
no drink to bring brighter to life
the constancy of waves,
to further open my mouth for all
the thoughts i’m dying to share,
(to pour onto the page);
no drink to further relax my toes
into this cushion of sand,
my sore muscles into the clutch of alcohol,
my mind from the weight of the world.
and i say it again and again:
There’s always a reason…
and even on the perfect day,
the life’s a beach dream vacation day,
it. is. still. hard.
it is why i pedal.
why i write.
why i drive 6000 miles.
why i watch waves.
because the need to escape is real.
in all of us, no matter how picture-perfect our lives appear,
it is as real as this view, this beach, these toes.
but i made it.
i made it through another day.
and this poem is my happy hour.
Girl Scout Headquarters
mixed with colonial wealth
(built on the slaves’ backs)
sometimes beauty’s marred
history’s hard to swallow
amid perfect squares
yet we walk through it
splashing, playing giant chess,
our steps going on
pieces of our past
even when they’re earned with blood
mark a clear future:
we can absorb this,
take pics, eat gator, and grin,
hoping we’ve moved on
(though the shadows know
of King Cotton, oppressed girls,
Sherman’s burning march)
we can’t have it all
the vacation, family… peace
without the whole truth
we can just love them
hope they never see the dark
(only the beauty)
forts can be pretty
and with alligator moats
quite exciting, too
hobbit holes exist
if you travel far enough
to open your eyes
cousin love binds us
just as beaches and waves do
under our shared sky
biking brings beauty
along every road we ride
from mountains to coast
from a fighting ride
to playing dolls on the beach;
camp beauty parlor
love my travelers–
though they bicker and complain–
the road unites them
only each other
to entertain, love, and learn
making their journey
under this bright moon
as it waxes our return
to everywhere home
she may look little
but like me she’s tough as nails
despite your warnings
she knows what she wants–
we drove three thousand miles
to snorkel today
yes, she’ll face high swells
and stay within my arm’s reach
but she won’t give up.
never doubt my girls.
there’s too much of me in them
and we’re warriors.
we pick up lizards
and make millipedes our pets
and chase iguanas
we make our dreams true
with each setting sun, moon rise
–doesn’t matter where.
swampy, buggy night
before a hot toll road drive
leads to paradise
on a perfect day
with music following us
on every corner
i sometimes get trapped
in thoughts of poverty, loss
(also on corners)
my girls all grinning
taking pics and buying gifts–
the perfect white life
yet anger jumps out
from car windows and bar doors,
a cruel reminder:
we’re not all equal.
some of us can ride trolleys,
take month-long road trips.
others beg for change
with thin plastic drinking cups
that they’ll fill later
in all this joy: grief.
vacations are like heaven
mixed with sorrow
sometimes the best words
remain trapped behind the view
of silent cycling
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