About Elea Lee

Foster parent, adopting parent, family advocate, educator, homeschool parent

Bird

He never had a proper name, although for some reason I think someone called him Pedro. He sang Jesus loves me with gusto and I can still see him briefly free and more than a little outmanned, a green feathery bundle on the avenida on Fort Amador when he had sprung his cage

I scooped him up and took him home

No matter what happened after, he was mine

Silver Fish

The river hunter is

Undeniably majestic

Swooping down and

Hitting the water with ballistic force

Often to rise empty-taloned

This time though

It catches a silvery fish

Glinting in its grip, in a dying sun

The first lap the osprey skims just above the water

As though the weight of the fish is too much

Then back and forth

Back and forth in high parabolic circles

Almost as though this were something other than

The dying fish’s first and last

Flight

Briefly Superheroic

At times I go back and parse

The pain, the bone-deep ache

The fever, chills, fatigue

The way it felt like constant, relentless muggings committed by tiny, unseen assailants

No hunger

A brief sense of being untied from all ordinary things

As though powerlessness could be construed as

Super-heroic

Shedding

At first I thought it was my age, that some magic threshold of peri-menopausal bliss had been breached and entered and that the clumps of hair went with the hot flashes and wrinkles. Then a survivor 20 years my junior told me she was struggling with hair loss and it occurred to me that perhaps it was one more Covid peculiarity?

I think I am handling it well. I have trimmed the remaining locks by inches and let its spun lightness rule the day.

I am alive

Stone Lions

Fairly unassuming manufactured house on the dog-leg routine to the store I didn’t even want to go to when…

Stone lions, like the ones I knew in China

Ushering in a succession of small wonders–Hello Kitty car curled behind a fence, two separate seahorse bird baths

All of these unassuming houses

Pocked with wonder

Glimpse of the Philosopher King

There is a story Luke tells about Joseph and Mary assuming somehow that Jesus was in their large family group as they returned from Jerusalem the year he was 12. It is the last chronological reference to Joseph. It raises legitimate questions about either their parenting or the point at which a boy was considered an independent in their culture. Both probably.

But more than that it was a handful of days where the Messiah was the Messiah in full public views. He said and did and was who he always was and always would be. Luke writes that the people he interacted with acknowledged his mastery of the subject at hand.

Why is this story here? Why aren’t there a million others? I want to know what Jesus ate for breakfast every day, not to mention what he said those days, years before his public ministry.

And I want to know more about his interlocutors. What did they gather from their

Brief encounter with the Philosopher King?

Jerichos

Long before her son’s whirling and untimely demise, my paternal grandmother believed in her traction with elected officials. I remembered this belief upon my first campaign, which was, parenthetically, about the loss of a single child and an unjust judge.

Who save me

would draw a line between Mamaw and the rise and fall of Hasmonean kings?

Amidst all this talk of unjust judges and rising kings

I tell myself there must be

sycamores in Jerichos still

Awaiting His return

God’s Great Grace

I believe that

Raccoons see you as the Mama Raccoon

Dogs see you as their alpha

But I see you at the head of the old stone table

A wry look on your face

As though I could ever be

More than your little girl, oh

God of the Universe

You spread out this invitation

To partake in your matchless

grace

Machine Translation

The old woman and the older woman sit down across a flimsy folding table. Between them there is a plexiglass barrier, the kind you might encounter now at a doctor’s office or the checkout line at the grocery store.

This time we all know we are contagious, right?

They type into complementary machines–one English to Korean and the other Korean to English

Do not forgive these Korean letters, forgive something else if you will.

The devastating depths men may plunge to

If the womenfolk fail to speak.