A poem by Kelli Tigerstrom, written for the HRC community.
Do you know how much I think of you
whenever I’m not there,
I wish I had more than empty hands
to show you how much I care.
I think of April’s beautiful face,
her spirit fierce and free,
and that every Halloween becomes a wound,
her child’s birthday that she cannot see.
I think of Tony’s breaking voice
the night his coat was lost,
a gift from his mom on Christmas Eve,
now vanished to the frost.
We searched and searched before we closed,
as the winter began to take its hold,
I still ache to think of him
walking off alone and in the cold.
I think of tents in the brutal cold,
and how much their sadness never ends,
and every morning I cry a bit,
and then lift up your names again.
And Tim, your light astonishes,
and your kindness splits the dark,
you spark a flame in weary hearts
and leave a sacred mark.
I think about the tears I saw
inside the Casey’s store,
a woman counting coins like prayers
just falling to the floor.
Her strength was weakening then that day,
her hope near incomplete,
and I was placed there, divinely sent,
to buy her food to eat.
Heaven whispered in that moment,
a prompting quiet cue,
that love shows up in simple ways,
when hearts know what to do.
And Brett, how grateful I remain
for every soul and heart you lift.
“Lost cause” is not in your vocabulary,
and will never cross your lips.
You open doors and open hearts,
your presence is a gift.
And with love, and mercy for all,
you built our village brick by brick.
You cultivate compassion,
you stitch us all into community,
a tapestry of love and hope,
grace and dignity.
I think of our HR team and all the workers
and the volunteers,
and Wil with all his flossing styles,
and his eagerness to serve and bless all who come there.
And Daryan, a champion of our people!
With your styles like Boho dreams,
to your edgy self expressions,
where your purest self gleams.
The universe conspired, I know,
to put you in this place,
and I am humbled to stand with you,
as you perform acts of healing grace.
And Brian! How your encouraging words
grow gardens in the soul,
you teach the broken line by line
that they are worthy of being whole.
I think of Jorge, and his eyes that have seen so much pain,
but he finds confidence in his art.
Each line he writes is a lantern flame
that flickers from his heart.
And Richard, a brilliant storyweaver,
mystic soul and sage,
your mind taps into the universe,
and then you put it onto the page.
And Richard P., and Sarah too,
and every single guest,
and Caleb, Clint, Thor, and Monica,
and all of the countless rest.
You are my village, my tribe,
my chosen family,
and the nights after my shift is done,
I take all of you home with me.