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Deborah Marie Young April 22, 1954- she never died. No. Cuz see when she was 2 or 4 cells big she split in half and that half thrives. |
I'm so glad I have a friend who always knows the way and stays with me right to the end I'm glad you made this day. Thank you Jesus for the sun and for my feet that let me run and for the colors of the world that spin together when they're twirled thank you for things that fly,the hummingbird, the butterfly, and for the mountains reaching high and for the stars that kiss the sky for this day's supper and supply for this world we briefly occupy the hope you give me when I try the love you give me when I cry and for the twinkle in Your eye that shines through others passing by. |
Some of Debbie's stuff seems simplistic, but she writes it all once, no crossing anything out, no second drafts. And it has the unique among the common: "Thank you for the colors of the world that spin togther when they're twirled". This was written long ago, when she could still run. She always focuses on life and death and God and righteousness.o |
Right now, this very minute, it is a beautiful June afternoon fading gently towards evening, Six o'clock, the dinner hour, and the sun is splashing an especially pretty soft light over everything green and turning the white sandy ground a pale gold.Treetops wave gently in the breeze, soundly declaring that the souls of trees are not in the body. A couple of crows take turns making sounds like squeaking rocking chairs, an airplane buzzes lazily by, and traffic swishes down the highway like litttle blips in space and time. I am alive, and I can see and I can hear , and I can walk in the sand and I can smell the dainty white flowers on the jasmine . Your mother, my sister, my twin, is alive, and you are (3,9) years old.The world is alright, God's plan folding quietly behind and throughout the scenes. There are problems in each day, little problems and big problems, money problems and transportation problems, health problems and relationship problems, but over all, the world seems like a good place. You are _years old, you've seen Lassie and Jurassic Park and Sailor Moon and Barney a thousand times, your house is full of Barbies and stuffed animals and games and toys and cats and pet mice and books and art supplies and videos and a Mommy and a Daddy and a sister. There may come a day, only all too soon, no matter when it comes it will always be too soon, --when someone may be missing from that picture.The big picture of your life. Then the world will not seem so good anymore. I am writing this for the person you'll be after you've gone through that time. Once upon a time, I stood barefoot in the sand as the sun turned soft in the horizon and the birds sang and the bugs hummed and an airplane droned overhead, watching my sister Deedee and my two little brothers run and laugh and yell in the golden glow, pine needles filling the air with their lucious scent, and the world was a safe good place. Deedee was 9 and Tony was 6 and Terry was 4, or Deedee was 11 and Tony was 8 and Terry was 6. Our mom was healthy and pretty and our dad was healthy and handsome and extremely wise. There was nothing in the world to be afraid of. We heard about cars hitting kids but we knew that could never happen to us. Other people got murdered, bit by rattlesnakes, poisoned by mushrooms, attacked by dogs, burned in fires. Not us. We didn't really know why such bad things happened to other people . We didn't really care. They were weird, they were freeks. Sometimes it snowed in our little globe but we didn't mind, so long as the scene stayed the same. But then one day someone picked up the little snow globe and turned it upside down and shook it so violently, some of the pieces disappeared. The Terry piece and the Tony piece. Just totally gone. And the left behind Deedee and Debbie pieces were permanently scarred. But they continued to grow, in their slow,scarred way, in borth wisdom and understanding. Flopping around in the world of matter like wounded birds, they never stopped trying to understand, Why were Tony and Terry here? Why are we here? Why won't we be here tomorrow? |
This was writ right when she was dying and the body of a young girl had been found sitting up burie alive in a grave next door, her purple stuffed dolphin in her hands. Most of Debbie's poetry slams the death penalty and abortion. Look what you hit what you won't babysit that tot like you thought anymore. Look what you slit thinking you could outwit any god who'd permit blood and gore. Look what you did to that brave little kid whose candle stayed lit just a bare little bit enough to emit where she had been hid and how close she was to a door. ddddddburiedddddddddthissitwebuilderwonttypewhereitrytos econdlineandwontdeletethelastlineitismakingofmyttemptstp |
