| Biographical Poetry
posted July 20, 2018 |
A story from the past lives here in the present
House of Broken Dreams
Welcome to our dream home! It’s here that we begin
where broken dreams of the past live securely within.
Follow me just upstairs here and off to the right
let me show you Hope’s room, now locked up tight.
Inside, a brightly-clothed pair of long twin beds
tall or short, the older boys could lay down their heads.
A large dresser here with side shelves and a hutch
drawers, big and small, and wide mirror to touch
Big walk-in closet loaded with shelves and rods
warm welcoming walls, with the emptiness, at odds.
We’d been looking so long it was hard to believe
so perfect a house, we did not want to leave
the entire upstairs (the reason the house hadn’t sold)
was the perfect layout for our envisioned household!
We spoke of the many boys that we could foresee
big bedrooms ‘round a big room, even the realtor could agree
excitement took hold, a future was in sight
computer room, build a workshop – we were ready alright!
As you move further down the hallway you will find
the door that Promise is sealed securely behind
The twin beds in here are bunked at an angle
giving more floor space for young boys to wrangle.
The chest of drawers is simple, big for littler clothes
on the wall, large shelves with buckets in rows
Inside them are Legos, trains, cars, and their tracks
clean and untouched, silent sentinels in stacks.
Our class today highlighted how families fall apart
true stories so varied, yet each broke my heart
Carlos and Cathy abandoned, Jamar on the streets
Krista sold for a fix, Anton used cardboard for sheets.
Our homework this time served to paint our background
nearly thirty pages of questions, superfluous through profound
about family growing up through the years to the present
queries of feelings and experiences both bright and unpleasant.
Stand in the big room, hear a loud hush that is deafening
the pool table covered, the game console still beckoning
the bookshelves adorned with novels through Seuss
and that foosball table’s grown dusty without any use.
This next room would have been for computers, homework and reading
its layout designed so each boy had a chance at succeeding
Four unique workstations of my husband’s concept
stand empty, as do chairs and tables, their surfaces unset.
Many classes then followed, week after week
child psychology; withdrawals; and P-T-S-D
each time, our departure bonded our decision to foster
to be the parent the boys needed and not an imposter.
The homework became more and more labyrinthine –
employment history, religious practices, lawyers we’d seen
detailed financial records for then, now and to come
crazy house photos but the medical forms struck us dumb.
Down the stairs here you enter a huge laundry room
most drying rods unused, overhead shelves like a tomb
they’re lined with bins of mattress pads, sheets, and spreads
all for upstairs, you know, for Hope’s and Promise’s beds.
This next room houses a large weight machine
three stations for workouts that sit idle and clean
the equipment sings a silent chorus with the modern treadmill
both waiting, always ready, yet so soundless and still.
As we struggled to grasp for what the forms were asking
it was also time for workshop-plan unmasking
each design had an auto bay and roomy woodshop
outlets for tools, work space with storage floor-to-top.
Now, back to the medical and what they required:
unrestricted access to our records it seemed was desired
not a doctor-signed form to attest our well-being
surrender of HIPAA* privacy seemed what they were seeking.
Back the other way, the great kitchen and breakfast room
here, turn on the light, it helps to banish the gloom
that tends to linger in this big space designed for a tribe
the oven, ‘fridge, and cabinets too generous to describe.
To the left, a massive table dominates the sunlit space
wordlessly asking for crowded family meals to take place
five seats never handled with empty spaces for more
Hope’s and Promise’s chairs never scraping the floor.
We’d poured out our life stories both oral and carefully penned.
We’d laid out our budget and assets, the odd stock dividend.
We’d done all the classes, deep discussions, role playing.
We’d passed background checks, our personal lives displaying.
But to need that one thing that is yours and yours alone
private information to you and your doctor only known?
Be honest, some things you don’t even discuss with your mate–
granting access to DHR* had to be a mistake.
Out the back door, you’re now in a neatly fenced yard
where a home-built double slide mutely stands guard
over weeds that now fill an unfinished sand box
near the gate leading to a gently sloping side lot
Across the space here is where the workshop would reach
those fruit trees could have stayed except maybe the peach
the bay door would have been on the side by the driveway
now only groundwork remains, already fading away.
Prior to next class, we met the leader to clarify
could a doctor statement of health this request satisfy?
Surely a complete physical with physician form would suffice
with all other paperwork and information so precise?
We had so much to offer to two, four or more juveniles;
but no HIPAA access meant the end of the smiles.
'twas true as not granting meant to youth we're unavailable,
so I pray that our house can once again be made salable.
Welcome to our dream home, it’s here where dreams end.
It’s for sale, if you’re int’rested; I’ve got photos to send.
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*HIPAA (pronounced in two syllables, hi-puh) Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996 - is United States legislation that provides data privacy and security provisions for safeguarding medical information.
**DHR (pronounced in three syllables, dee-aych-ar) is the Department of Human Resources
First, this is NOT our house; the image simply worked well with the poem. :) :)
Second, quick explanation: because our boys were all grown, my husband and I decided to foster since we were definitely not over the hill yet! When it came time to move out of the city, we aimed to find a house that would serve toward this goal. Since we had already raised three of our own and I am a teacher and he is an engineer who does woodworking and auto mechanics for hobby, we figured it would be a loving mission to help as many of those not as blessed as our boys had been. The government, however, is not looking for foster parents; they actually just want extensions of their own bureaucracy as I did not include here much of the other stuff we had already provided them (those details just were not relevant to the story). Sadly, we tried, but we would certainly be happy to sell you this lovely home near a major Lake!! :) :) :)
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