Susan Senator

Here is a poem sent by a friend of mine, which he wrote during a long flight somewhere. Tim does not have a special needs kid of his own but you could say that he actually has millions of them. I’m publishing it here, with his permission, because I think he really gets it.

Born to No

Mystery rush in
I want to catch some
As I sit in the bleacher near a rough sod track
And the lanes
Divide the field into narrow lines telling each runner, “Stay in.”

I sit
Not alone but not a part of the mothers and fathers and
Bored brothers

and sisters waiting for their turn To cheer sister special

There she is now,
Making her way to the starting line
12 years old and not made for glory
Born into tears
“No Ma’am. The Baby is not all right.”

Born into struggle
No walking at 1
No talking at 2
No playdate at 3
No school at 4

“No Ma’am. Not here”
Born to no.

And when she runs, she runs fast and away

So now her race; her lines ahead, her place to fit in
Between 100
meters of start and finish
In her moment to run.

The gun fires and she runs
Sister, daughter, child of mystery, running, head high, eyes wide,
arms swinging, wild.
“Run sister. O Good Lord. O Good Lord.
My child, my precious child of my body. Run baby run.”

And finish-I know not how or what number-she did
And she raised her
arms, her limbs like crooked trees arching toward their sun
Spreadingtriumph with every sweatdrop

She’s looking at me. Smiling.
And I am surrounded by her posse of yes.

She is our mystery of yes.
Nothing less.

And there is nothing more.

–Tim Shriver