"Deep Roots"

    Deeply Rooted

    Born in a season where summer still lingers
    but fall is fiercely playing tug of war.

    Young parents, during an era when opportunity
    was not knocking upon your door.

    Brown, bald, bundle of joy, Germaine be the name.
    No "J" leading the way, little girl not little boy.
    Happiness, love, unselfish pride,
    days of hard work to provide and survive.

    I had arrived, my gifts and blessings buried within my soul.
    My path determined, days numbered, future known
    only to my creator. But my purpose never told.

    Who am I? What will I become?
    My destiny already determined.
    My parents' values being instilled.
    Born, sworn, priceless creation with
    God's greatness "Deeply Rooted."

    Growing by leaps and bounds unable to sleep
    in my make-shift bassinet made from a dresser drawer.
    While sharing a backroom with my likeness
    on the second floor.

    Sprouting like a weed in a garden with room for many more.
    Welcoming the arrival of a smaller likeness of me
    for my parents and others to adore.

    First responsibility, God's first task assigned.
    The role of a big sister, protector, leader learned in
    a child's heart defined state of mind.

    Little did I know this would prepare me for the battle
    I would have to endure before I was even a decade old.

    Fighter, survivor, already "Deeply Rooted"
    within my tiny little soul.

    Barely introduced, our time together short and sweet.
    Difficult to recall the sound of her voice,
    warmth of her touch, smell of her perfume on our
    lumpy mattress dressed in a thin lint-balled fitted sheet.

    The one with whom I was joined for nine months
    then for too few years,
    Had successfully completed her mission here
    as cruel as it may seem.
    A daughter, a sister, a mother, a friend and
    wife among other things.

    She laid the foundation for her two,
    accepted her wings ready for a new start.
    And still her memory, her independence and
    accomplishments remain deeply rooted within
    my spirit and evident in my giving heart.

    At five plus one, a half decade;
    too young to realize the impact of such.
    Too young to shed tears cause I'd miss her so much.
    Too young to know the pain of those she left behind.
    Too loved to feel alone, too loved by God's design.
    Never really knowing her husband, our father,
    his family nor being too much a part of his plan.

    Enter a sweet, soft, mild tempered honey colored
    angel named Lucille.
    Ready and willing to fulfill a promise
    she made at her daughter's bed side.
    Grandma became our mom and with her we would reside.

    Still younger than a decade, a big sister
    and grandma Lucille raising us,
    life once again seemed bright.
    But failing health had taken hold and
    grandma had her own battle to fight.

    Little girl grow up.
    Little girl grow up fast.
    No time for cartoons, and things little girls do.
    Not realizing the danger, our living arrangements
    would expose us to.

    So why tell my story?

    Although I don't point the finger
    and it took me years to forgive and not place blame.
    I just wanted to empower another soul
    who may be enduring such pain.

    Since God's goodness is deeply rooted within
    His mercy is coursing, pulsating through your veins.
    Family members young and old under the same roof
    but too engrossed in their own life.
    Embattled in their own personal fight.
    Sex, drugs, home turned shooting gallery
    as day gave way to night.

    Little girl run, prepare for night.
    The unwanted guests would be arriving once more.
    Forget about the hunger in your belly, and the few stale
    oatmeal cookies you borrowed earlier from
    the square somewhat round red corner store.
    No wonder red is the color I most adore.

    Never do I remember feeling so alone,
    still younger than a decade and now the woman of the home.

    Never did I know that the fat cold box, a refrigerator,
    was supposed to have more than mustard and an onion
    behind the lead-like dirty door.
    Fearless little girl run, take cover, pull out the bucket
    disguised as a portable toilet and look around the room
    to see that grandma and little sister are all accounted for.

    Push, pull and slide the recliner over behind the door,
    serving as our deadbolt lock once more.

    We would lay in bed coming up with nicknames like
    "Cat" and "Mousie" as the unwanted visitors
    climbed to the third floor, the wooden steps announcing
    each as...