It had been a Very Long Day

She hugged her baby tighter

and wiped the sweat of her brow.

Glad that the worst was over.

It had been a very long day.

She didn’t want to leave

but the small blonde girl seemed to be doing just fine

blowing bubbles with the other children.

She slowly put the key in the ignition

already anticipating returning in a couple of hours.

It had been a very long day.

She didn’t like to see her cry

but she couldn’t stand to see her fail either

would her shy little girl ever change?

“Just two more houses then we can go.”

It had been a very long day.

Her daughter paced the floor of their living room

her black heels making her look even older

ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty…

And she started to pray.

Finally a car pulled up and the girl fluffed her curls and pulled on her dress.

It was a relief to see her smile

but a fear to see her leave.

It had been a very long day.

After two weeks full of stress and preparation

everyone ran around putting up chairs, checking lights, and playing music.

her shy daughter talked to the strangers as they entered the double doors.

And soon she was dictating the concert.

She caught a glimpse of the future but was glad when it was all over.

It had been a very long day.

Eighteen now, she flew across the stage.

Leaping and turning with a huge smile on her face.

he lifted her effortlessly into the air.

And then she curtsied.

By the time they got home she was ready for bed

with visions of Sugar Plum’s in everyone’s heads

It had been a very long day.

They called her name and she walked across the stage

shaking a couple of hands and grabbing her certificate

had this really all happened so quickly?

Years had passed like the blink of an eye

It felt like only yesterday she was her baby

hooked up to pipes and tubes

with words like awkward, brain damage, and forever

swirling through the air.

Yet, through the Grace of God she stood receiving awards and honors.

Through the Grace of God she smiled back at us

Throught  the Grace of God…

It had been a very long day.

My love Poem

He stood there looking nervous,

I wore my sister’s hat.

To me, he was a stranger

or something similar to that.

I gestured to him slowly.

He barely stepped through the door.

I had never experienced anything

quite like this before.

Our relationship blossomed quickly

like a tree that bore sweet fruit.

I blushed fire-engine red

when he randomly called me cute.

He took me to his hiding place.

He introduced me to his friends.

He kept my chocolate wrapper

and helped me run errands.

We sat on his downstairs couch and

he looked into my eyes.

He told me he wanted to kiss me and

I told him he should try.

His lips touched mine just slightly

and all I could do was grin.

Because, you see, with him

I was the happiest I’d ever been.

We saw each other often

And he bought me yellow flowers

He said he wanted to marry me

And I pondered it for hours.

I asked God for the answers

And yet his voice was still

Eventually I took a leap of faith

While submitting to his will.

Jaron asked me to marry him.

And I readily agreed.

And things seemed to be perfect

He was all I would ever need.

We named several of our children

I bought my wedding dress.

For a minute everything was perfect

But then it slowly became a mess.

We couldn’t agree to anything.

We both had a good cry.

He broke off the engagement

And I thought I was going to die.

At first I was embarrassed

I didn’t want anyone to know.

But then I missed him more

Than I’m even willing to say so.

I pretended I was fine.

I prayed to be ok.

I cried into my mother’s chest.

I wished everything could go away.

I wished I had someone to blame

I wished that Jaron was there

I wished that I could get a solid answer

To my constant pleading prayer.

And then, just for a moment

I was back into his arms

He kissed. He saved me.

And then again he caused me harm.

Gone.

Gone like my happiness.

Gone like my dreams.

Gone like all our plans.

Gone like… Jaron.

Learning from the Pain

I remember the moment distinctly. I was sitting on the back of a four-wheeler and I cried to the heavens. I asked the Lord why he would take this boy away from me that I loved so much. Weren’t there other people who could do the work? Did he really need my Daylen to go on a mission? But of course the answer was yes and I knew that. And I have always wanted to please the Lord. I told him that I was willing to make this sacrifice for Him. In fact He was the only reason I would willing let Daylen leave for two years.

But boy did I grieve. I was so upset when Daylen left. I was willing to make the sacrifice but I had no idea it would affect me this badly. Where were the blessings? How was the Lord allowing me to be this upset when I was willing giving him something so important to me? I prayed and I prayed and I was reminded that Jesus loved me. And He helped me find Jaron.

I never told Daylen I would wait for him, but I never really planned on having Jaron either. I did not believe that I could find somebody so amazing who would want to be in my life. Jaron wasn’t planning on getting into a relationship either. We both had finally decided to stop grieving about missions (Mine being Daylen’s absence and Jaron’s being his own mission) and decided to get back into the dating world. When I met Jaron he was very much still a missionary. He listened to church music and slipped into Swedish and we would go on dates to FHE and read the scriptures together and he made me so happy and he was exactly what I needed.

Jaron told me the Lord had prompted him to marry me and that same week Daylen told me the same thing. Suddenly I went from a girl who was convinced no one would ever want to date her to a woman with two marriage proposals in the space of several days both of which came by spiritual prompting.

So I came back to the Lord and prayed and prayed and prayed. What was his plan for me? Was Jaron my blessing from my sacrifice? Or was I supposed to marry Daylen? In a way I felt like Joseph Smith, praying to know which to choose without realizing that the answer may be, ‘none of them”.

But I was not receiving an answer. I talked to my parents. I talked to Daylen. I talked to Jaron. I talked to the Bishop. I even talked to strangers and yet no one could give me the answer. My dad gave me several blessings and the Lord always offered comfort but no answers. Finally, I decided to take a leap of faith. I told the Lord that I was planning on marrying Jaron and if that was not the right answer to help me know it.

But my heart was hard and I don’t think I was really willing for him to say it was wrong. I loved Jaron and I wanted to be with him forever. But again, the Lord had another plan for me and again I had to learn about sacrifice.

Do I know why Jaron wasn’t right for me? No. But I do know one thing. I came to this earth for two reasons: 1. To get married in the temple and have a family 2. Be willing to choose the Lord in every situation. In a way it’s kinda like the fall. In my little mind the two were contradicting each other. I tried to get married and start a family but then I wasn’t willing to follow the Lord or I tried to follow the Lord and I wasn’t able to start my family.

So I took a step back and I looked for an eternal perspective.

The Lord knows me. He knows what my challenges and strength are. And he alone understands how much I want to get married. I’m sure when I was up in heaven I looked at Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother and longed for a relationship similar to theirs. I’m sure when they were introducing the plan I smiled wide when He spoke of eternal families and temples. I always wanted to be married. And so I came to earth and choosing the Lord was the easy part. I wanted to please Heavenly Father and I knew doing the right thing made me happy too. But I had to prove that I would always pick him even when I didn’t understand why. I had to prove that I wasn’t just doing what I wanted but that I was actually doing what the Lord wanted. When I think about it long enough it almost makes me laugh that I hadn’t seen it before. Why wouldn’t the Lord try to strengthen my faith in Him while I searched for my companion?

The Lord always needs to be the most important man in my life. And I think I’m not too that point yet. I ask the Lord why I have to sacrifice for him without even thinking of the sacrifices he has made for me. He loves me. He knows me and even when it may seem otherwise he wants me to be happy because he knows how to make me happy. He know way better than I do!

So do I miss Jaron? Yes. Do I miss Daylen? Yes. But I think I miss the Lord too. Of course I’m not happy. Of course I want to be married right now. But I’m glad that the Lord trusted me enough to let me pick him. And I learned so much about myself and you know what I’m going to be ok someday, meaning not this day, but soon. And it’s hard but I know when I focus on the Lord he can make my burdens light.

Dancing

I threw myself to the floor again, it’s not a typical thing for ballet but I was playing the part of Mulan and it was definitely necessary. I got up as awkwardly as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I had learned too well to throw myself around gracefully. “You look like a ballerina!” my sister Kacy called from her seat at the mirror. I gave her a look; I am a ballerina.
    I went home and practiced falling over and over, by this point my knees were collages of purples and browns but I had to get this right. I had been selected as the main dancer in the production number, and I was going to do it to my best ability. The tops of my feet scabbed up as I continually rolled through them to try and take the blow off my knees. In my front room, I practiced my landing over and over, trying to force my body out of the habit of being graceful. I’m sure anyone who saw me through the window would have thought I was insane: falling, getting up and doing it again in an even more horrendous fashion, I must have looked like a nutcase.
    At the next rehearsal the choreographer added to the number, and with the new addition came more falls and more pain. Near the beginning, the other dancers were supposed to fling me to the floor. While I’m sure they meant well, their efforts never did enough and I was forced to slam myself to the ground harder than humanly healthy. On these occasions I would often get a good gasp from the younger girls in the room. They looked in awe at me, the lead, just giving all she had to her part. Each little girl saw me, purposely putting myself in pain, and they envied me. I know, because I had been one of them.
    I had seen the older girls taking off their pointe shoes, and I wanted them more than anything. Yes, I knew my feet would bleed, that if I landed wrong once I would break bones and never be able to dance again, that I had to commit to the art. I chose that path. I lost all outside friends, I had my studio girls, the ones I would dance with for hours on end. Of course I loved them, even though all I knew was their first and last names and how many pirouettes they could land from fifth. I knew what it was like to look into the mirror, and see only the imperfections: knees too bent, leg turned in, bun too far to the left. It continued on: butt too big, neck too short, arch too low. But it was the life I choose. It was the life I wanted.
    The first performance of Mulan came closer and with it so did the tension. Regardless of all the practices, the pieces were not ready. That day, I had fear beating through me; it happens sometimes, I just fear the shoes, the floor, the teachers. This was not a good time. I tried my best to do my dances but I literally shook with terror. I would not look at myself, I would not eat the pizza they brought to rehearsal, I just continued to dance. The studio director pulled me aside. She told me I was not doing well enough, that if I didn’t step it up, I didn’t deserve the part. She told me to fake confidence, even if I had none. I told her I would try harder, that I would live up to her expectations. I went home and cried, for my own faults, for her harsh words, for the fear that I would ruin the performance for everyone.
    Then it came, the first number. No one else cared as much as I did, this wasn’t a life changing event. Just another dance, we had done thousands, why was this one any different? I stood backstage, full of happiness. I know it sounds crazy, that after all of that, I still loved to dance. I still looked forward to getting on that stage. I rolled through my pointe shoes one last time and took my spot in the light.
    I danced. I smiled. I lived the part. I was Mulan, I was that girl who no one thought was good enough, who didn’t even recognize her own reflection. I lost myself in the dance, and I loved every second of it. My heart was pumping and my face was beaming. I was doing what I loved.
    We won first place with a 99%. I was thrilled, but it was nothing to compare with how it felt. That moment changed my life, it shaped who I was. It made me happy, it reminded me why I danced. It made it all worth it.

Just Another Writing

I wrote a "poem" (I'm not sure if I would call it that) the other day, but it's very sad, like always.

  The meadow had always been a place of refuge, but this time was different. 

                       I'd matured now. 

                  I couldn't hide from the problems. 

                                                                         That were inside me. 

 If only I had known sooner, before it was too late. But I didn't. 

 I picked a small flower. I didn't know what kind it was and I didn't care. I pulled off each petal, tearing the small plant to pieces just like the cancer would tear apart me. 

 The wind blew through the trees and the leaves rattled in laughter. Even nature found my misery amusing. I fell to the grass trying to calm myself in its familiar scent, but comfort would not come. 

 I lay there, just laid there; on the dying grass and felt myself go numb. Tears did not emerge; anger did not spread. I felt nothing. I just stared at the gray sky, wasting what little time I had left. 

 The clouds let out their tears but I would not be phased. The droplets hit around me and I welcomed them. Hoping I would drown in the sorrows of the sky.

Believe, Dream, Inspire

I wrote this for a contest this year, I lost but let me know your opinion. Believe, Dream, Inspire She believed she could and so she would but it was never quite that simple. Her arms were too long her muscles weren’t strong and on her cheeks there was no dimple. The little girl with ragged hair could dream her days away but in the dark and dreary room was where she had to stay. The other children laughed at her when she talked about her dream and she would try to ignore them but often her tears would stream. She could practice all day long but nothing seemed to differ she was getting bonier and her legs were getting stiffer. One day she decided to just give up “I’ve dreamed and I’ve believed, but I can never be a star! This was not what I perceived!” She curled up in a ball and shed a single tear it hit the cold stone floor a light did slowly appear. The room changed into a magic world filled with open space her rags had turned into a dress and she had a natural grace. She twirled and whirled and leapt all night her feet growing numb her inspiration shining bright. Her heart beat, her own drum, this is the girl she could become.

Who am I? at Eleven.

I've shown you some of my best works, but I can assure you I haven't always been able to even form complete (or good) sentences. Here is a piece I wrote when I was about eleven for some assignment. This was the phase were I thought really short sentences were cool.

        Who am I?
    I hate roller coasters. I would rather have my feet on solid ground. I am not a dropping person either, I would much rather be on flat ground.
    I love sports. I take dance, basketball, softball, track and field, tennis and cheerleading. I love it! Sometimes, I am so busy I go straight to bed when I come home.
    When I am not playing sports I am playing instruments. I play the piano and clarinet. I also sing solos at church. Last year I sang with my sisters. Who am I?
    When I was a baby, my brother put me in the bathtub and I almost drowned. I started to turn blue and I was life flighted to primary children’s Hospital.
    I like to hang out with my friends a lot. I used to talk on the phone with them but after we talk for five hours straight my mom told me to go on walks with them instead.
    I have twelve people in my family but in June we will have thirteen. My siblings and I are so excited I can’t wait for a new member in my family. Who am I?


Just to clarify I could play like "Mary Had a Little Lamb" on the piano, could do a cartwheel and knew a few cheers, and did a 3 week summer tennis camp. It's interesting to see what I thought was important to tell people like, "Who am I?" "Well, I hate roller coasters!" Way to get priorities straight.

The Magic of this Moment

 Here is another story I wrote. It is actually inspired by one of my friends and my imaginary love life.

I couldn’t breathe.  My thoughts were a mess, thinking of everything that could go wrong. I did slow releves and put another layer of rosin on my pointe shoes. Looking on the other side of the wings, I could see my partner. I could see him shaking and any sanity I had left was gone. I slid into a left split. I had trained every day for hours. Ballet was my life, but at that moment I didn’t feel prepared. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to my friend’s house instead of stretching. Maybe I should have been going through my routine, not worrying about who might ask me to Prom.

            I turned onto my right side. I heard applause and looked over to see the little girls run off stage. They were all smiling and giggling. I guess one girl had dropped her headpiece on stage and all the other girls thought it was so hilarious.

            I stood up and started to pace behind the wings. My only thoughts were all similar, “Don’t puke, don’t faint, don’t die!’ In less than a minute, I would walk onto the stage as Odette. My instructor gave me a thumbs-up sign and I turned my head back to the stage. Fog started to flood the floor and I realized that was my cue.

            I placed my arms into the graceful swan position I have become so familiar with and tondued front. Taking three slow breaths, I said a silent prayer, begging that I wouldn’t trip over my own two feet. And, as the flute hit its last chord, I flew onto the stage.

            The light practically blinded me and it wasn’t until I prepared to pirouette that I remembered to smile. The combination was tough, and a lot harder with hundreds of eyes on me, but when it finished, I felt good. The curtain closed for intermission and I ran off stage to change my costume and, hopefully, practice the pas de deux once more.

            After retying my pointe shoes and hairspraying my bun, I went to find Bryan. Bryan was a funny guy, but definitely not the first person I’d want to partner with. His red hair, freckles, and braces don’t really help portray the Princely figure he was acting out. And sometimes his hands are really sweaty, but he is an amazing dancer. He is much better than me. He also is very kind and not the least bit stuck up.

            I finally spotted him over by a little girl who was crying. As I came closer, I recognized her as the dancer whose headpiece fell off on stage. When he saw me, he smiled. “Isn’t she the prettiest ballerina you’ve ever seen?” he asked the girl. She nodded and looked at my tutu with that longing I knew too well. My cheeks turned the color of Bryan’s hair.

            “Well, I better go,” he said, patting the little girl’s knee. “Thanks for talking to me.” He then held his arm out towards me and struck a ridiculous pose and asked if he could “escort me to my pond.” With his words, my fears came anew. We still had half the performance, including my acting of Odele and then our traumatic death together. I fidgeted and checked my bun for stray hairs.

            When we got back to the wings, we realized there wasn’t enough time to go over our part. Wishing each other luck, we got in our opening places. After being on stage once, the second time wasn’t as scary. The second act went well, besides one of the fog machines going at the wrong time, the second half of the production started off without much error.

            However, when it was time for our pas de deux, I could feel my knees wobbling. Bryan grabbed my hand and I almost pulled back; he was sweating up a storm. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever partnered before, but imagine a sweaty guy lifting you in the air. Sounds gross, right? Well, you probably didn’t realize this will also make his hands very slippery.

            My hands were clammy and I’m sure I made a very unlady-like face. I heard a chuckle come inside Bryan’s throat and his lips tried to tell me something but I was turning before I could read his words. All throughout the first part, I kept looking at him, trying to figure out what he said. I came back to reality when I prepared for the lifts. I did a soutenu out of the fish dive and started falling. My pointe shoe slid on a stray bobby pin and I was tumbling backwards. Bryan was there in a second and pulled me into the move everyone calls the “awkward cuddle.” Although this wasn’t supposed to come until later in this dance, I was very grateful for his quick actions. The dance did end well and we finished on time. We bowed and the curtains closed.

            We ran off stage to change and discuss how well opening night had gone. I pulled on my warm-ups. Scrambling through groups of mothers congratulating their children and chattery teenage girls, I got to the rack that held my costumes. I slipped my white tutu onto its hanger and fingered the beads. I knew my parents didn’t come to this performance so I was in no hurry to get out into the audience. I finally hung up my tutu, lost in my own daydreams of the night’s performance when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Bryan. Let me tell ya, he looked much different on stage than he did then in his jeans and t-shirt. “Do you need a ride?”

            I looked around. I guess I had not noticed everyone’s exit, but I was the only one left in the costume room. “Oh, it’s ok, I’ll just call my dad.” I said, while unzipping my bag. I reached to grab my phone, but his hand stopped mine.

            “Really, it’s no problem,” he said. “Besides, I actually need help finding my way home.”

            “Well, I’ll try to help, but I’ll warn you right now, I have a terrible sense of direction,” I confided.

            Bryan took my bags and easily lifted them over his shoulder. I smiled and he gave me this really strange look. Then, without warning, he picked me up and flung me on his shoulder too. I let out a screech and he chuckled, low and deep. The sound of his laugh brought me back to that night’s events and my tongue didn’t hold back my curiosity. “What were you saying?”

            Now let me explain. I’m not very good at talking to people (well, duh!) that’s why I dance. It’s my form of communication. “I didn’t say anything,” he said, obviously confused. He pulled me off his shoulder and opened his car door.

            “I meant today during the pas de deux. You know, right before the pirouette?”

He smiled and hopped into the car. Buckling our seatbelts, the silence from my unanswered question stretched on. Bryan finally changed the subject, “So, how’s your boyfriend?” he asked. Blushing, I told him I didn’t have one. The conversation lightened and I realized there was a lot more to Bryan than I once thought. As we got nearer to home, I found myself hoping the drive was longer. I felt comfortable talking to Bryan about his crazy siblings and the ways he pulled pranks on them. We only got lost once, and I have a feeling he did it intentionally.

            When his car pulled into my driveway, Bryan jumped out and helped me carry my stuff to the door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, while grabbing the door handle. He gave no reply, and I turned to see if he was still there. His green eyes met mine and he grabbed my hand. I had held his hand so many times before, but never like this. This was real life; this wasn’t another character. This wasn’t a way to get into a lift. This was just two people that had only recently realized how much they cared for each other.

            “I love you,” he whispered.

            “What?”

            “That’s what I was trying to tell you during the dance.” I still wasn’t sure if I had heard him right, but as he reached out to kiss me, I assumed it had been something along those lines. Bryan pulled away quickly and with a deep bow, returned to his old self.

            “I will see you tomorrow, my lady.” For some reason, the words “my lady” hung in my mind more than they probably should have. I waltzed into the living room wondering if tomorrow could compare to the magic of this moment.

            For some strange reason, I was sure it would!

           

Here's a story I wrote for Reflections (a contest) a few years ago. (2011) The theme was diversity.

She cried as she hung up the phone. Her husband cradled her head in his chest and rocked her slowly back and forth. If I was the dog sitting next to the couple on the rug, I would be very confused, but I wasn’t the dog. I was the mother without a child, the women cradled and protected by her husband.
It had been two years since Jeremy had disappeared but every ring of the phone was a spark of hope in my pit of blackness. This call hadn’t been about my little boy, it was about a little girl. My tears weren’t tears of sorrow, but tears of confusion. I didn’t want to make the next decision, but I needed to. I turned to look at my husband and that is when I realized he had no idea what was going on.
I slowly sat up and took a sip of my water, then set it on the table next to the phone. I started talking, my voice cracking every other word or so.
“They thought they found Jeremy but it turned out to be a little girl. Her parents can’t be found and they were wondering if we would like to…” my voice wavered and I again burst out in tears. What if my Jeremy had been found, his kidnapper in jail, but they couldn’t reach me? What if he was safe and happy but with another mommy?! It was too hard to bare and it would be horrible to take someone else’s child. It was like I was replacing my son with a random daughter whose parents were probably worried sick over her.
“What should we do?” I cried again looking into Matt’s eyes, Jeremy’s eyes. Even at three he had been the spitting image of his father.
Matt, being the calm guy he was, softened my hair and spoke surely and slowly, “We have to help her, take her here and look for her parents. Jeremy will be here soon, I just know it. Wouldn’t you want someone to help Jeremy?”
Looking at it this way didn’t seem to make me look like I was stealing another mother’s child and I asked Matt to call the station back.
☺☺☺
Things happened much faster than I thought possible and I met the girl that night.
She was very shy and wore very plain clothing. She looked about five and they guessed she had only gone missing for about 3 months, yet her parents hadn’t been involved in the search, or at least not around here. The girl had shiny black hair and gray eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer. The officer next to Matt proclaimed, “She can’t speak English.” He paused, “but we believe her name is Raylae,”
After more talking, they agreed Raylae would move in the next week. When the officer left I turned to Matt, “She can’t speak English.” I again broke into tears.
The next morning was a crazy one, first Matt and I called relatives and family to tell them the news. We then headed to the store and bought our little girl some clothes and a couple of toys. And then, I went into Jeremy’s room and cried my eyes out. Matt and I cleaned up his toys and put on the new pink bedspread. We filled the drawers with Raylae’s new clothing and then she came over again.
We talked to the officer and showed Raylae her room.
Raylae came over every night and played with her toys, she wore her new clothes back to the station and even called me “Mama” once. It was so weird and sad, but I learned to love Raylae quickly and she was starting to pick up English. I was “Mama” Matt was “Mate” and words like “toy” and “water” soon came. Our dog was her best friend, and she was his.
Before we knew it, it was Saturday, the day Raylae would stay overnight, and hopefully, would never again return to the station.
We waited until Raylae fell asleep and then the officer turned to leave. As he opened the door his pager went off and he quickly waved to the family and left.
As Matt picked up the little girl asleep on the floor and walked her to her bed, there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” I said even though I wanted to tuck Ray in so badly. The officer was at the door and her had important news.
“Raylae’s parents have been found,” he gave out a big sigh, “but they are not alive. If you would like to adopt Raylae I can hook you up with someone who can help.”
Matt started chatting to the officer about the exact adoption process and I wandered to the hallway. I peeked into my baby’s room and inside was Ray, her mommy was gone, and if I wanted to, I could be her new one. Did I want that?
Raylae started to fidget in her sleep and I came over to find a little blanket in her arms. It was Jeremy’s. I wondered how she had gotten it out of the top of the closet. But it was then that I knew she needed me. I knew I needed to make her part of my family.
About a year later Jeremy was found and returned to us. He had been living with a family in Canada. Our two children became best friends, and if they hadn’t been different races, people would have mistaken them for twins.

I'm From

A boy plunged his hands into the glass of liquid

the fear more piercing than the cold.

He grabbed the body and pulled it to his chest;

his heart pumped rapidly

as mine stood still.

I’m from a large family:

eight daughters, four sons.

This would always change my look on life

always separate me from the crowd.

I’m from a backyard swing

and a long blue slide,

a trip to a magic world,

a ride on my bike.

The boy was a rain cloud,

gloomy, but ready to burst.

The helicopter flew away

and they were left to wait.

I’m from an old beat-up wooden floor,

the echo of footfalls

and the faint smell of rosin,

like the bark of an aspen tree.

I’m from the long late night studies

and the humbling prayers,

from the adventurous camps

and the stories from the hearts’

of my accepting friends.

The doctors tried to make the baby open up her eyes

knowing this incident would affect her whole life.

I’m from a rosed-cheeked mother

and an easily persuaded dad,

a worthy neighbor,

and a loving Brother.

I had to write this poem for school, not exactly my favorite format and I even took of the last stanza because it didn't flow but was necessary for the grade.  Yeah so I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who didn't start every stanza with "I'm From" but I kinda like it. What do you think?