Tuesday, January 24, 2017

January 24, 2017

Dear Henry,

I've been thinking about the dream I had a couple of weeks after you died.  I wrote about it before:  I’ve had only one dream (that I remember) that I think was about you. It was a couple of weeks after you died. I swam or flew somehow way out to the edge of nowhere. The sounds of the earth faded into the distance behind me. It was completely silent, completely gray and empty. I waited, looked, listened. Nothing. It felt like I was in a place where I didn’t belong. Remember that feeling? Like when you’re in an off-limits area, all alone? Suddenly I felt myself being pulled back, sucked under water, tossed about. I could see the clear water about me and the clear surface rippling far overhead. I saw the screen curtain of our apartment door, so I swam through it and popped to the surface. Then I woke up.

I think I was looking for you, Hen-Ben. Looking for #3, my skinny son Henry.

That place was so foreign.  It was like Genesis describes the world before creation.  It was without form, and void, and darkness was ..... well, it was darkness.  There was a horizon, far away, but it was just discernible because there were two shades of dark.  I was there, full of breath, and color, and life, and I knew that I did not belong in that place.  But I was determined to find you, to follow you wherever you had gone, and to grab hold of you and either bring you back, or, failing that, to be with you, wherever you were.  I asked Jim last night, where do you think that place was?  He thought, maybe, it was death.  And, Henry, you were not there.  And I did not belong there.  So I was sucked back into my life, painful as it was.  I had to come back and learn to live in this living, colorful, breathing world, without you.  I'm still working on that.  I know Jesus weeps with me, and that is comfort indeed.  I love you, my sweet Henry.  - Mama Pajama

Saturday, June 6, 2015

"Life" by Henry Roberts (a high school poem assignment)

Growing up,
Time moves rapidly,
The smell of Play-Dough on Sunday afternoon,
Feeling big in an adult world,
Rubber and plastic are magical substances.

Growing up,
Everything is a toy,
Imposing fills your world,
Getting older is shunned,
Cartoons seem somehow real.

Growing up,
Innocence starts to fade,
Expensive technology replaces old favorite companions,
Teenagers are mean,
Play-Dough is replaced with modeling clay.

Growing up,
Your age limits your enjoyment,
You miss the innocence of times past,
Life is run haphazardly,
Parents contaminate your freedom.

Growing up,
The future is a distracting nuisance,
The opposite sex is no longer an unpleasantry,
Black is my favorite color,
Envy circulates.

Growing up,
Why can't parents understand?
Maturity has found a well-hidden home in your heart,
Deep thoughts appear,
You pity the young.

Growing up,
Experimentation is uncontrollable,
A car will make you desirable,
Friends are suddenly important,
No one can know you.

Growing up,
Maturity is exposed to the wiling public,
Being nice is acceptable,
You seek your past,
You feel invincible.

Growing up,
Envy is childish,
What will happen tomorrow?
You try not to make it an effort to act mature,
Television is a parasite for the weak.

Growing older,
Aspirations are limited to your imagination,
Children comfort your soul,
Someone relies on you,
You rely on someone.

Growing older,
Your parents have created your personality,
Your children want to play!
Friends die unhealthy,
Life goes on.

Growing older,
You acknowledge your mortality,
You respect life,
You don't fear death,
Your love does not last.

Growing older,
You inherit your parents' rejected features,
You want to have young feelings,
Years of determination has paid off,
You are tired.

Growing old,
The present doesn't appeal,
Old memories fade,
No one listens.

It's inevitable,
You greet death with half-way open arms,
You cry,
You have earned the right to rest.