My Final Thought

The Appalachian Mountains are older than the North Star,
the Atlantic Ocean, even trees. I live at their feet,
searching for a poem in reruns of Jerry Springer.

It feels close—like vein under skin,
the last great space where all our tangled roots are fed
as if the mountains themselves know
the blood buried in the soil beneath our stories.
Stories just like the reruns of Jerry Springer,
where the same betrayals play out, again and again.

What family doesn’t have a call-girl cousin,
a child whose father’s not who they think,
a sister who stole her sister’s man?
Branches growing from a strong trunk. Why—

—In college, my mother slept with my aunt’s boyfriend.
My aunt swears it didn’t happen—he only liked blondes,
that my brunette mother must’ve said it just to hurt her.

But now my mother is dead. I have her journals,
and I am alone
in these deep-time mountains,
re-reading, not speaking, the truth.

Final Thought:
You only get one family, like Jerry says.
When that family betrays you, it’s hard to reunite.
But here, in these mountains, I’ve learned
to sip from the stream that carries without words.
Here, I pick leaves from the trees—
slowly, I listen to the silence speak,
and in it, forgiveness isn’t asked of you.
but the earth lets you choose what to hold
and what to release into the ancient wilds.