Fragments Rising
Remembering All the Men I Thought I Loved
by
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A Regret that Lingers I arrived at work as most teachers wrapped up their days; most students at this school did not need after care. There was a visible class difference in the students who attended the after school program. It felt like the step-child of the school, the black sheep at an immediate-family gathering. Barely a shell of myself under a thin veil, hiding the gloom, I did not recognize myself in the mirror. I was shy, guarded, scared in a pervasive constant way that I shared with no one. Yet my eyes sang green in a new hue, the one part of me besides my long curls that called for attention when the rest of me cowered in the shadows. You were the only teacher to approach me to introduce yourself, to welcome me. I meekly introduced myself; barely making eye contact you said hi to me to me. You used my name, my name, genuine, kind, warm, friendly, and so deeply personal. It shocked me to silence. I managed to eke a smile. You were lanky, not ominous. . I did not shudder from your voice. Each day, you greeted me the same way. I grew to count on these ten second acts of kindness, a consistency in my life: someone noticed I existed. Come spring, I found my courage to respond and engage in conversation. I looked forward to these micro-encounters in the hall. Your eyes did not cut When I arrived at work the last week of school, I did not see you. A hushed thickness filled the air with the news you had been diagnosed with AIDS. I rushed to your classroom, feeling my voice for the first time, wanting to just say thank you. I found your room empty: you were gone! I could have asked the administration for your contact information but in the echo of the empty room, my humbleness and my fear crept in. A missed opportunity. I never said thank you. I never expressed my gratitude for the significance of your daily sprinkle of graciousness, a flashlight in my darkness. I gave away my chance to offer you compassion in your time of need. This ache still wets my eyes, the pang of regret. My lack of assertion broke my heart, shifted my gears. I now reach for each opportunity to say thank you. I hold precious the privilege of telling any who do good that I see honor and cherish who they are. I wish I had told you, so you knew how much you mattered before you were gone
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About the Book
For all of those sitting in shadows of sorrow,
unsure of stepping into the light,
of being seen,
feeling flawed,
unaware of your pure worth,
warding off consuming darkness
that distorts and suffocates:
I see you.
I hear you.
I reach out my hand to you.
Please take it,
walk with me.
Mercy Roberts believes that touching one soul changes the landscape of the world. Emotion is her first, most fluent, and favorite language. She writes to give voice to those locked in fragile, traumatized silence.
In this collection of free verse, Mercy not only shares a moving glimpse into her relationships with men, but also provides an unflinching exploration through childhood trauma and far beyond. She illuminates the vulnerability and power of one voice as it rises to find a path to healing.
Justice rises one word at a time. Bare. Stripped. Exposed. Relentless. Fragments Rising is an evocative memoir in free verse that captures pure strength of spirit and the power of a gentle heart that has reached a moment of grace, safe enough to speak at all, and at last.
About the Author
Mercy Roberts treasures the healing power that lives in all forms of art. She creates experiences that support, encourage, and inspire others to express their truths. The craft of storytelling brings her comfort and endless fascination. She wrote her first collection of poems, Fragments Rising, to break the trappings of isolation and to braid strong threads of connection. When not writing, she takes in the ocean breeze and the wisdom of trees, walks her dogs, and laughs with her two beautiful children.