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This Blessed Sip of Life

“Hello, how are you doing today
I hope I find you feeling healthy”—
your smile broke like spring after too long a winter.
We met by chance,
but it felt like gravity had drawn us in.

“Could I love you? Could you love me?”
The world held its breath.
Your laugh said yes before your mouth ever did.

“Say, my love, I came to you with best intention
You laid down to give to me just what I’m seeking.”
And you did.
So I asked,
“Kiss me, won’t you kiss me now?”
Because I wanted to give you everything and asked for nothing in return. Other than joy.

We stitched our lives together with whispered promises.
“Hold my hands, your hands—
So much we have dreamed.”
Your hand in mine,
the future felt like a secret only we understood.

“Oh, please, lover, lay down
Spend this time with me.”
And we did,
under stars that blinked in approval.

Children came.
And laughter.
And little hockey skates by the door.
“Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain.”

We were a painting in motion,
“Our love is so right—
Forget the clouds that rain down on you.”
Two of us. Anything felt possible.
“Two of us together, we could do anything, baby.”

But time speaks in silence.
One day, I noticed the pause between our words.
“You could look inside and see what’s on my mind
I let you down, oh, forgive me.”

I did try.
You did too.
But something between us shifted.
The PTSD became too much and we didn’t know how to navigate.

“You crush me, with the things you do,
and I do, for you, anything too.”
That balance turned to burden.
If only we had worked on our mental fitness rather than turning on each other.

“I fall so hard inside the idea of you,”
not you—
not anymore.

“Wanna stay but I think I’m gettin’ outta here.”
And you did. And so have I.

“Everybody asks me how she’s doing
Since she went away
I said I couldn’t tell you
I’m OK, I’m OK.”
But I wasn’t.

I replay the good days
like old home videos.
“Ride my bike down the old dirt hill
First time without my training wheels.
First time I kissed you I lost my legs—
Bring that beat back to me again.”

“I know I’ll miss her later
Wish I could bend my love to hate her.”
But I never could.

“This blessed sip of life, is it not enough?”
Some days, it feels like it is.
Other days, I drink it down bitterly.

“And we were so much younger
Hard to explain that we are stronger.”
But we are.
Just not together anymore.

“Stay, beautiful baby
I hope you stay, American baby.”
You didn’t.
But I hope you found whatever you were looking for….
So many words unsaid.

“And if I don’t see you
I’m afraid we’ve lost the way.”
Maybe we have.

But still,
“I shall miss these things.”
The laughter in your eyes.
The weight of your head on my shoulder.
The silence between our words.

“Lovely lady, I am at your feet, oh God I want you so badly.
And I wonder—this: could tomorrow be so wondrous as you there sleeping?”
It once was.

And though
“I let you down—
How could I be such a fool like me?”
I carry no bitterness.
Only love.
Faded, but still honest.

“But I do know one thing—
And that’s where you are, is where I belong.”
Was.

And maybe
that’s enough.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
I saw some artwork on paper recently. Music lyrics on paper used to make an actual drawing. And I wanted to make something similar but poetry…..this is raw and very much a work in progress.
Shawn Oen May 23
The Foundation We Build

Beneath new beams and fresh-cut pine,
In the hush of evening’s slowing time,
We shape a space with care-worn hands—
A daughter’s dream, a life’s new plan.

My son-in-law, with steady grace,
Beside me in that shadowed place.
We lift and frame, we brace and bend,
Not just a room—but means to end.

My father’s voice, still calm, still wise,
Echoes through sawdust-scented skies.
Three generations, hearts as one,
Driving nails until it’s done.

There’s laughter echoing off the studs,
And plans sketched out in drywall dust.
Each hammer’s swing, each nail we drive,
Another way we keep love alive.

And yet, amid the joy and sweat,
There lies a quiet, soft regret.
A space beside me not yet filled,
A longing that won’t quite be stilled.

I wish my son could see this too,
And feel the pride in what we do.
To pass this torch, to share this bond,
To build a life he’s proud beyond.

And someone else—I feel the lack,
A presence missed, a voice held back.
To share the dusk, the ride, the road,
To lighten up this blessed load.

For family’s more than blood or name,
It’s showing up through joy and strain.
It’s knowing love in tired hands,
And finding peace in shared demands.

And when the stars begin to show,
And quiet calls me home to go,
The country roads stretch soft and wide,
With sunset bleeding on each side.

My body aches, my spirit soars—
For in these nights and through these chores,
I’ve come to see what matters most:
Not walls, not tools, but who we host.

A future built with sweat and care,
With love poured out in each repair.
And in that basement, warm and bright,
Lives not just shelter—but their light.

To give, to build, to stand beside,
To share the load, to swell with pride—
I know now what family means:
It’s not the house, but all the scenes

Of working late and driving slow,
Of quiet peace when day lets go.
Of building futures, hand in hand—
On sacred, sawdust-covered land.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

— The End —