Four years ago today an Angel called a 16 year old Boy named Jeremy Gomez home.
He had had a very difficult few months … first needing a liver transplant then finding he had leukemia.
He went from a happy, very involved teen in Early march to laying in a bed in a hospital in South Florida, surrounded by family and friends.
Jeremy loved Music and Things Purple and participating in ‘educational’ videos.
Death came in the silence of the night
a knock sending fear to the bone
He came looking for me alone
his ride had only room for one.
Better to leave this place,
and live now Forever.
Stand not at my grave and weep
For I’m the wind that stirs your soul
Look not for me for I’m not there
I’m the glint in flakes of snow
I’m the cool shower on April morn
In the hush of nights silent air
I’m the rush that that fills your soul
Stand not at my grave and weep
For I’m not dead
I’m with you at your side
When you feel the wind blow
I’m the sweet uplifting rush.
Look to the north
I’m the Glimmering star
Cry not for me
for I’m eternally yours.
Glimmering Star ©2003 Sleepybear Productions
Happy 20th Jeremy!!
Twenty years ago today a child was born who brought all of the normal joys and challenges of being a boy to his parents. He made them very happy at times and at others .. not so much. Typical for a growing boy.
As he grew, he developed a love of music and learned to play some instruments. He was even good enough to play in his school band.
He had a huge smile that effected everyone who met him. He loved to travel and be with his friends. He was very popular.
A short time after his 16th birthday.. that all changed. After a brief illness he lost a short fight with leukemia. Everything seemed to happen so fast. One day a vibrant teen in high school … then he was gone!
We are approaching the fourth anniversary of that horrible event.
His Family and Friends are remembering him and that time.
Today he would have been 20.
Tampa has a huge sporting event coming July 13-18. But No one is taking any interest in it. The only Sport organization to support it is the Yankees. Not ONE local team is. It’s the 33rd National Veterans Wheelchair Games. They need all of the support they can get and can use volunteers. They will bring thousands of visitors to the area for almost two weeks. These are Disabled Veterans and deserve our help and care.
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper — bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives — to teach geometry, or ring up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind — our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across cafe tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos dias
in the language my mother taught me — in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always — home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country — all of us –
facing the stars
hope — a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it — together