To You, Who Have Been Given Unwanted Gifts

To you, who have been given unwanted gifts:

You had no choice but to unwrap
what was left on your doorstep.
Once opened, your life
split into before and after.
Your soul, dislodged,
watched you plod along—
a stranger among pitying murmurs.

I see you.

I know why you had to pack those horrors
into a sturdy box.
You had to get up, make pancakes,
take the dog to the vet,
and keep those around you from drifting
through the vast sea,
even as you sat on a rough board
in a dinghy, the ocean inconceivably vast.

People called from the shore,
“How strong you are!”

But what else would you do?
You knew where the other choice led.

Like your grandmother, your great-grandmother,
and the long line of ancestors before you,
you picked up the oars
and rowed yourself toward meaning.

To make your suffering stand for something.

Someday, you will open that box,
its lid embedded in your marrow
like barbed wire swallowed by a growing tree.

When you unearth what you buried,
your body will tremble with a torrent of tears—
for what could have been,
for what you’ve endured and lost.

Suffering and joy,
the human lot:
the pact of death nestled within the gift of life.

Yet your package was unfathomably heavy.
The first time your eyes meet those
of another similarly burdened,
you feel the depth, the kinship.

We, who sit at our wheels at sunrise,
spinning strong fibers from tattered lives,
weave sturdy ropes for those still lost at sea.

We know our kin must journey alone,
but still, we fashion anchor lines, tug ropes, lifelines
for when their arms grow weary.

Though we cannot take up your oars,
we sit beside you,
whispering gentle winds and smooth seas.

We, who know this perilous journey by heart,
offer the solace of shade, a sip of water.
We share our pain and how we’ve endured,
but we will not lie to you.

We won’t tell you your dinghy is a yacht,
or the sea, a mere pond.

Take care with those who cannot
sit beside your suffering.
Their pretend-land will make you feel invisible,
tangle you in guilt, make you question reality,
and lose your North Star.

Dear one,
know you are never truly alone.
Remember those who came before,
who also navigated without a compass,
their hearts a torchlight.

Moonlight and wind illuminate the water,
stars murmur sweet nothings in your ear.
You are held by the strength of your ancestors.
You are loved.

You are not a burden;
you are a beacon.

When you find land,
palms down upon the earth.

The most sacred of prayers.

Stick by stick,
log by log, you build a campfire,
coaxing yourself back to your core.

Then you stand,
do the next right thing,
and the next,
until all those right things
become the foundation of your new life.

One day, you too will sit
at the early-morning spinning wheel,
weaving blankets to soothe the arms
of those who’ve rowed long distances.

As you wrap them in cloaks
worthy of their beauty,
you soothe your own weary heart.

~ Juliet Blankespoor, November 2024