Remembering Taiga.

I had my very own marley for me.
I would pull up the little brown stool that wandered around our kitchen, and plop myself down beside you. I would sing songs, convinced that while all those people inside the kitchen were annoying - you would be and were my best friend. I don't know how you didn't bark at the first sounds of me singing. But truth be told, you didn't bark much. When storms came and scared you stiff, you would just cower in the bathroom - hoping it would be over soon.
Oh, you sweet girl.
My sister and I would come to you with our newly gifted plastic medical kits and lift your ear, open your mouth and check your paws. You didn't protest. Not even when we decided you were the next best thing to a donkey.
I would ask about that big black ball that caused your left eye to droop just a few centimeters and the reply was always "Hashem made her like that."
And yes He did. He made you like that.
He made you a sweet puppy who grew into a dog that was nothing short of the younger sibling I never had.
He made you with a coat better than shining armor, your hairs were deep red - forever shedding around the house.
And I remember, sweet girl. I remember how I grew up with you always there and I remember the day that He took you back. I went with Imma to go pick up her sheitel, for it was a Friday afternoon. On the way to the car, we passed Abba and the boys digging your new bed. Your forever bed.
And I came back and I sat by you, laid my hand on your belly and watched it rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. I watched you breathe heavily until my hand fell with your exhale and didn't rise back up. "Abba!" I called "Taiga isn't breathing". So they picked up what once was you and placed it on our favorite orange sled, one last time we pulled you to the apple tree in our backyard.
I don't remember any ceremony, just dirt filling the space where I first encountered death. Just me placing my favorite toy dog on top of the fresh mound because I decided you needed a companion. And each week, the mound got flatter. And then the apples fell, rotting into the ground. I hope they were sweet, I would feed you my crust if only I still could.
There are 8 of us, and yet you were each of ours and ours alone.
I  hate the fact that I'm the youngest because I got to live with you the least.
And I was little, not more than a 2nd grader. But I remember you, golden girl.
And I miss my Taiga more than makes sense.

Throwback poem/prose.. Those People.

We all have those people. God, I hope we all have those people. I hope everybody has people like I do. Because I have some stinkin’ good people.
Those people, for me are the ones i stay up late texting.
Those people are the ones who I discuss the latest absolutely marvelous poem with.
Those people are the ones who send me ted talks that i am obliged to watch
Those people are the ones I send a ted talk back to, because it was completely life changing
Those people roam the aisles of target with me, buying the newest chips over discussions of the pleasures of arguing
Those people are the ones who argue with me because man, its just so fun
Those people embrace my craziness and stand there, despite this messy hair and all
Those people are the ones I laugh with, in the most cliched, side aching way
Those people are my teachers, long after they've left the official position.
Those people are the ones I call crying, with yet another ridiculous fiasco
Those people listen.
Those people offer advice.
Those people are honest with me. In the most beautiful, terrifying and encouraging way.
Those people are even my enemies, who fuel me with the desire to prove what is right
Those people feel like late summer nights.
Those people feel like a deeply satisfying poem.
Those people are my friends.
Those people are my family.
Those people are my rocks.
Those people are
my people.

Throwback poem. Eric Garner.

Please just leave me alone,
Officer
Please just leave me alone.
A man minding his business,
Approached because of the
Complexion of his skin.
Innocent until proven guilty,
Flipped upside down on its very face.
Justice has taken another form
From what I have known it to be.
Standing on a street corner
Is no longer okay
When you're skin is too dark.
The right to exist is not there
When you're judged for who you are.
Guilty until proven innocent,
Never even given the chance.
Slap a badge on it, give it a gun
And all actions are excused.
Since when is living a crime.
Since when is murder not.
Trends are for bowties and skinny jeans,
Not the murder of innocent people.
Today I am ashamed to be white.
Today I am ashamed to be safe.
Today I will stand up for those who no longer can.

Please officer, just leave me alone.
Please officer, just leave me alone.
I was just standing here.
I'm so sick of this.
I can't breathe.

Shabbos tree.

Every week when I was young, on the way to shul we would pass the good shabbos tree.
The process was simple, a few houses down and across the street, the third oak tree from the left was our tree. On saturday mornings and only on saturday mornings not past a certain time (the good shabbos tree wasn't fond of children late to shul) this tree was magic. With a simple "good shabbos, shabbos tree" and a quick {forbidden} hug, the tree would rain down fruit by the foots on us - our treat of choice. I would nudge my father to be out the door before it was too late each and every week, for nothing was worse than when the shabbos tree ignored you.
Sometimes the mysterious tree would appoint a different tree a block or two ahead of it's usual post. This was all rather confusing. So my little mind would consider the various options, maybe the candy was thrown from airplanes in which delighted passengers were so proud of my shul-going activities?
But then I flew on my first flight and the windows didn't open and not much could be seen down below.
Harumph.
But each week I was more pleased with the arrival of candy than the confusion as to it's source. Not much else matters when your mouth is filled with sweetness.
And now sometimes I wonder when the good shabbos tree lost it's magic.
Was it in a moment of carelessness when my father accidentally allowed us to see him throwing the candy up from behind?
Or was it when I realized that trees make leaves, not candy.
Perhaps one day I started stealing candies from the cupboard and no longer needed to venture across the street.
One day, the tree was no longer magical and it's allure wore off.
Sometimes I wonder what it would take to make me feel such mysterious magic again.

Throwback poem. Balance.

A society of juice fasts and diets
Of unplugging and marathon
Training. There is no longer
An in between. The grey area
So off referred to is skipped
Over replaced by harsh black lines
On college ruled paper.
I am right. All else is wrong.
The fear of admitting
There might be something
That none of us know
For sure.
Look up. Look down.
Viral videos, articles posts
Opinions flying without relent
It is not technology
Or obesity
Or health
It is balance.
A lifestyle of extremes is not one
To be lived
So please I implore you
Be Phone off or phone on
Look ahead.
Think on your own
and achieve
the balance in that little gray area
We call life.

Texting.

Texting is the land of miscommunications. We send out messages, waiting for replies - forgetting the human on the other side of the screen. False assurances typed out, an emoji here, lol there will make things alright. Providing an air of "no, you are not forgotten. All the attention you could possibly need is right here in the palm of your hand. With me. But not all of me. Only the parts of me so filtered out, snatches of time in which to type a reply. Our relationships should not rely on the appearance of that second check. Our role models should not be the little green words saying " typing...". We fall back on our phones, an easy way out. After all it is infinitely easier to say what we would rather not hear to a screen that will not give us looks of disgust. An emoji cannot replace what a glance will do. Humanity is human. I think we should be too.

So no need to put the phone away but could you please press that phone symbol. Give me a ring, I'd love to hear your voice. I'd love to have you hear mine.

Throwback poem. The Angel's Nightmare.

The Angel's Nightmare
A missile soars past heaven
Headed towards its destination below.
An angel peeks out the curtain
Sighting the strife between man.
Another rushes to the door
Ushering in the next young soul
Hands in his pockets, tears in his eyes.
Yes, the angels sleep on clouds of fluff
And dream in the colors of the sunset
But that little curtain
Showing all the misery that is earth
Terrorizes their nights.