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Thanking Tom Waddell

Mango-peach was the new hit
on toast. For her, not for me.
Too sweet. She made perfect
coffee. It was our usual

Monday off-the-shelf blend.
She talked; I chomped. She
was awake; I was not. Later,

in front of my laptop, I started
to ruminate about the strange
EMDR session from last week.

The question was simple, but
not simply answered. I could
not think of a soul. Who?

She said something like, “This
time, look and see who you’ve
had strong emotional ties with,

anyone, anytime.” I turned back
to the screen to continue her
directed lateral eye movements.

In a matter of nanoseconds, I
saw Tom Waddell’s engaging
smile flash in my mind from

long ago when he was my
counselor at camp. He was
21 and I was 13. This was not

the answer I expected. I was
flabbergasted because I didn’t
know what seeing him meant.

The memory was surprising and
delightful. He was more special
to me than I remembered.

As I followed the lights and felt
the electronic buzz jump from
hand to hand, I thought maybe

it was a mistake. No one else
came to mind from my lifetime.
“What do you see?”

I told her my thoughts of Tom.
He was genuine and caring. It
was the summer before I had to

repeat the 8th grade. No one
else would listen. He listened.
No one else understood. He did.

No one else cared that I was
hurting. He did. No one else
was my hero. He was.

Lunch today was a surprise.
She called to say she was on
her way home and did I want

some chicken? Sure. Sweet of
her. We ate and talked. I went
back to my laptop only to have

bullet journal woes. My hand
is killing me! Typing, no pain.
Writing at length, ouch!

Thank you, Tom Waddell, for
your kind affirmations. I will
not forget you.

EMDR will reveal more this
week. Another visit. More
healing through memories

I didn’t know I have. Like when
I watched him high jump his
height from in front of the bar.

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:


Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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