Jannah-Rae

This was Ten
by

This was Ten

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Ten started in school.
Ended in virtual academy.
It began among friends,
And ended lonely.

Sunday school at the local masjid,
Arabic lessons again attempted. 
Science project on display,
“Grow a Gummy Bear;” come and play. 

Ten was a Music Memory competition,
The first of what promised to be many. 
Spring Break started just like any,
But soon heralded many a new tradition. 

COVID precautions grew more strict,
And with it priorities had to be picked. 
Personal touch waned, screen time galore:
E-books, video games, a Marvel Universe to explore.

Work done by mouse and key.
School supplies saved for another year.
Face mask engraved, one of a dozen, 
In the car, by the door, as long as one is near. 

Long drives, gas is cheap,
The most there is to do, while the world retreats. 
Colorado, in the summer, for time in the woods.
Austin, over Thanksgiving, a second year in a row.

Free school lunches,
More sugar than ever before.
But free is free, 
And usable for sure.

“Can you text Sonia?” “Can I play with Ellie?”
“Internet is not working!”
Words and questions on repeat:
“Mama, what can I eat?”

Interests ebbed and flowed;
Outschool on auto reload.
Piano continued, albeit enforced,
Rock climbing was put on hold.

There was drama club, through Portland Parks and Rec,
Music composition, started but later dropped.
Writing class, drawing class, both completed.
Yoga on Sunday mornings, a routine weekly repeated.

YouTube vidoes for crafts unknown:
Rainbow loom rubber band creations.
Felt sewing projects attempted,
So much fabric, a clean room is now exempted.  

Video chat friends far and near,
Old friendships are now so dear.
New ways to connect while disconnected;
Virtual study group just invented.

Facetime Grandma long last seen.
Playing Uno on the screen.
Write more letters, make new friends,
Drive by birthdays, now a trend. 

One rescue cat lost to the night,
Tears and pleads, and “another one, please.”
Third time lucky; we finally got it right:
Tuxedo Mango will never be out on trees. 

Election year, civic duty called: 
Up street and down street to lit drop and poll greet.
Classes missed, history made:
With the first female vice president, the old regime was hauled. 

Ten shape shifted,
And adjusted.
Slowed down,
And combusted.

Many memories still were made, 
Looking back there is little to trade.
One more sleep, one more chapter,
No one knows what comes after. 

Keep at it my sweet little girl,
One day all this will make you twirl.
To think of what you went through and survived, 
Your heart will fill with pride. 

I love you through it all, 
Mama will always be here when you call. 
Happy birthday, Jannah-Rae. 
One more year, hurray, hurray! 

by

100th Day of School

The 100th Day of School,
Ten years later.
The 100th Day of School,
One thousand three hundred forty nine miles farther.

The 100th Day of School,
And a lot has changed.
The 100th Day of School,
But the heart and the soul are still the same.

Though the hair has gotten shorter,
And the hands have gotten bigger,
And the smile has gotten wider,
And the legs have gotten stronger.

Though the shirt no longer fits,
And the interest has been set a drift,
And the fun has been taken out,
And the kids all just go about.

The day is still a cause for celebration,
Given a moment of great elation.
For making it this far, yet again,
Is something no short of a win.

When you think of all the reasons not to,
And then wake up and decide to.
When you push against the tide,
And make a point to keep your stride.

When your friends are come and go,
And your teacher is not your hero,
When school is a cause for angst,
And there are no supporters in its midst.

When you question the need to attend,
And express frustrations in regular need for amends,
When recess is no fun,
And lunch is like a meatless bun.

Showing up to a hundred days,
Is admirable in so many ways.
It reflects trust and determination,
And courage and aspiration.

One day looking back these 100 days will seem,
Nothing more than a distant dream.
And a practice run for a distant future,
Where a broken heart might require a suture.

And all the strength, and confidence,
And forgiveness, and presence,
Being tediously worked on now,
Will one day be part of your essence.