. . .  if they fail to express what is in their own minds,
what is the use, no matter how many poems they compose!
~ Ryokan

The doorbell rings. On the porch, standing in a downpour, is a very wet girl in baggy clothes.  Her hair is mouse-brown with red and green streaks, her face festooned with shiny bits of metal and orange lipstick and an alarming red rash.

She can’t be selling Girl Guide cookies. What’s this about?

“Yes,” I say.

“Hi, I’m Lisa, Janey’s friend. Is she home?” She leans in trying to peek around me.

Janey’s friend, uh oh! Why is she here?

Janey rushes up to the door. “Dad, this is Lisa. She’s the one I told you about.” Her voice lowers. “You know . . . from rehab.”

Lisa? Maybe late teens? Maybe Crystal Meth? Was she Janey’s special friend who shared red licorice and TV in rehab?

“Hi Lisa, come in,” I say with little enthusiasm.

Head down, Lisa enters, mumbles “thanks.”

Janey jumps in again: “Dad, I said she could come over. She needs to get away from her boyfriend, like I needed to, you know, get away from Johnie, so I could get clean.”

Just a boyfriend? maybe a pimp? a drug dealer? Violent? Will he show up here looking for her? Damnit! Janey promised to stay away from those street kids.

Reading my silence as leading to a “no”,  Janey jumps in again: “Dad, Lisa’s got nowhere to go. Can’t we help her?” said in the same wheedling voice she had used for getting a second bedtime story.

For how long? What about her parents? Why not rehab? Or a shelter? And what are those red spots? Hives? Measles?

“Lisa, Tha’s quite a rash, you have,” I say. Are you feeling okay?”

Janey says: “Dad, they’re just Speed bumps, meth does that,” she explains, with the same authority as when she identifies the birds that come to the feeder she put up in our backyard, trying to help them through the winter.

Janey has always been a rescuer. I’ve encouraged her, thinking that if she cares for something or someone else, maybe she’ll begin to care for herself. Maybe this is an opportunity?

pouring rain,
and also pouring in
so many maybes and what-ifs.
yet has a bit of hope
also seeped in?

who said,
“hope is a thing with feathers
that perches in the soul?”
perhaps someone, like me
who needs to hope again.

“I was just fixing dinner,” I say to them.  “Janey, why not take Lisa to your room and get her some dry clothes and then let’s sit down, have dinner and talk.”

Much later, after many conditions stipulated and seemingly agreed to, we’ve gone to a store where the girls bought the necessities: hair and tooth brushes, underwear, tops and pants. And that night, they retreat to the TV room, and I give them the bag of red licorice I bought for them while they were shopping.

just two girls,
yet so much more,
sunk deep in the sofa
giggling while watching TV
and sharing red licorice

a morning walk
with the black dog.
maybe the spring flowers are up,
Dare I hope for
the flash of a yellow warbler?

---

About the Author

Ray Rasmussen resides in Edmonton and Halton Hills, Canada. His haibun, haiga, haiku and articles have appeared in the major print and online haiku journals and anthologies.