Thank You for Seeing Me
Being invisible does not silence
Quiet dawn slipped suggestion of change Into night’s unfeeling, breath-stealing mysterious, Merest sliver of ethereal rose shattered dome Of indifferent pine needle stabs, piercing cries, Magical, terrible things that go bump in the night.
Dream drenched traveler wakes to yellow sheets Layered on coral, peach, and strands Streaking horizon’s rim, places unseen and unknown But not unknowable when you look them in the eye And say hello, here’s my story, what’s yours.
She ponders tea’s steaming mysteries, its whys, Wherefores, and who its people were at harvest, Who they are on this very day’s dawn While she scrawls her words, mindful of time, Knowing day will interrupt heartbreaking flow
Beginning with merest of cracks in protective shield Designed to protect with unbreakable cloak Of invisibility from swift, incurious eyes Already knowing who she is and where she fits In their tidy world: business, nothing personal.
Ones with wide open eyes, wondering hearts, Agile minds delighting in puzzles, riddles, dilemmas, People like dogs and children younger than ten When they become wise to the real world, forgetting who they are, unlike dogs and squirrels,
Have always seen her, smiled, and asked for stories Once they have shared their own with veers into games Of chase, ball, and skipping through fallen leaves. We share a common language in laughter, warmth, Sharing the last cookie before we make more magic.
In one best-forgotten time she’ll always remember, Even unseeing ones saw her, touched her, said hello. That visibility was surprising, bracing support For one who didn’t realize how lost she was Until she returned to glorious invisibility.
Dawn smiles at daily sprawl of tea-marinated words, Grins at bold-faced declarations of this is how, Whispers don’t forget about why — here, read this. Glasses on, toast crumbs litter page of the wisest book Written simple as a child, may we be worthy of it,
Live its pulsing heart of welcoming all to the table, To sit around fire, wrap hands around mugs of hot tea, Tell our stories of who we are and where we come from, Remembering home while we reach toward Our next welcoming place where we can be seen.
Toast crumbs are real as the peanut butter smeared on plate, as the stunned gratitude for warm kitchen, comfortable chair, breakfast with the piping hot tea flavored with almonds and coconuts from far-off places.
The book is real — written by a real person on behalf of real people, illustrated by artists cherishing their memories, diving into the heart of home.
Neil Gaiman’s What You Need to Be Warm is a simple, heart-stopping poem with pictures.
Since it is that simple, that clear, with pictures, it is deemed a children’s book — and so it is.
However, we are all children.
Being a child in this world has little to do with age.
I’ve known the tiny ones wielding useful lies, the older ones realizing the ways things were for them then is not the entirety of reality or what can be.
I’ve fended off terrible idiots, young ones and old — recognizing the younger ones can be complicit in silence and the older ones staunch champions because I remind them of who they want to be or their sister, mother, wife.
As I’ve aged, the battles are far fewer.
Invisibility is not necessarily a terrible thing.
When you’re invisible, you decide how visible you are — the jerk pulling the CALL button for nurse’s assistance for a personal emergency or the writer scribbling first thoughts with her first cup, knowing they are the truest ones that will power this day until night.
