It Was Something in the Little Things
Learning to Write Again
It was something in the way she’d smile
Ever so peacefully in her sleep when I’d touch her face;
It was something in the magic of watching her fall asleep on my chest
and feeling air enter and leave her body one breath at a time
in continuous procession and steady rhythm.
It was something in the beauty of her cry, her hair, her supple skin
and her little nose.
It was something in who I’d become by the very virtue of her existence —
an uncle, and a very happy one.
How someone so little makes me want to be so much more,
to fight a little harder.
It was something about the warmth of the sun after the rain,
and the sincerity of the wind as it blew into my eyes.
It was something about the richness of color in the open skies
and comfort in the shade of the forest canopies.
It was something about the fading of day into night
and the clearing of dark into light in perfect cosmic balance
without contention and without effort.
It was something in the love I have for my old man;
how he makes me laugh;
how he makes me wonder if I’ll ever be a man as good as him.
Something about the priceless moments we’ve had on our way to the farm, just the two of us — how he’ll purchase a whole lot of food
and I’d wonder if we were there to work or eat?
Something about the way he looks at me;
something in his eyes that says,
“You have no idea how much I love you, little one.”
It was something in the taste of mama’s food;
the way she cooks it with abundant love.
She’d tell me that even when I’d be married and somewhere far away,
she’d still cook for me for as long as there is breath in her bones.
I love that woman!
It was something in every little thing around me;
a beauty calling out to me to tell its story.
It was something in every little thing that made me know,
that I’d write again.
I tell the story and the story shapes me.
Beltusbebongchu 2021
