All Too Rare

The dream never changed.
Not once.
No matter where it came from,
from being largely invisible as a child,
not seen and not heard,
too self-sufficient for my own good.
But as a kid, you have no way of knowing
the consequences of who you were
or the whys. You are in survival mode
trying to figure out a world that made no sense,
creating your own meaning where none was offered.

It is not so different as an adult.
You simply had more effective tools.
And so you had careers. Marriages.
A breakdown. Too many changes to count,
most of them internal, remembering your mother’s lesson,
“Never let them see you sweat.”
Or cry, Or flounder. Lousy advice, but well meant.
A sharing of tools.

But, no, the dream never changed.
At this grey-haired time in your life,
it likely won’t.
To matter.
To be heard.
to be worth the effort.
Simple enough, but alas,
all too rare.

About this poem

I believe that one thing we all want is to matter. I could be wrong. It might just be my thing.

But I don’t think so.

The picture was taken at Poplar Forest, Thomas Jefferson’s “other” home.

Tom