Finally. A goodbye.

Today, we put my grandpa in the ground. I did. My dad and I knelt on the ground and lowered the small box of ashes into the ground.

I don't even know what to feel or think about that.

It was a four-hour trip to Pennsylvania. My dad drove, battling through the rain that threatened to invite danger.

Finally, we reached our destination. It was a little cemetery, with family buried there. We waited until my grandma, aunt, and cousins arrived.

Reluctantly, I walked over to the grave stones. There, in front of me stood the newest grave stone. Something in me gave.

It was my grandpa's.

It was a year ago, May 8, 2012. My grandpa died in a nursing home with all of us around. I'll never forget it. Or him. He loved me. He never cared about all the problems I gave him. He never cared about my past. He cared about now. That I was his grandson. That is why I never left him without his prayer.

I snapped back to reality when it was time to put the ashes into the ground. No one expected me to do this. To be honest, I was scared.

But I realized that this was the end. His ashes were all that remained in this world. This was the closest I would ever get to feeling his embrace again. No memory or dream would ever change that. He was gone and so was part of my heart.

I wanted to be strong. So strong. The day my grandpa died, I never cried. I saved it all, not wanting to give in.

But it hurt, as it did today. And for the first time, I am at a loss for words.

My sister said it well. She cried because she missed him.

"I don't want to say his name anymore," she sobbed.

My mom asked, "Who?"

Then my sister said, "The one I loved."

With that, the rain poured down.

I don’t know what else to say. It hurts. I hate it, because it controls me.

I guess that's what grief is; it is love's pained departure.

If possible, I would spend one more minute with him.


© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Love You Forever

Last night, I had a dream. It was a dream. I didn't pretend to believe it was real. I could feel it, and for the first time, I cried.

It was eleven o'clock at night and I had just finished preparing for the following morning. It felt good to be organized, for once. My eyes were heavy as I climbed into bed. Slowly, I fell into a deep sleep.

But while I slept, I learned so much.

In my dream, I was once again an innocent baby. I was in a dark room, scared of what lurked behind the shadowy walls. I cried, but no one answered. I cried again and still no answer. Just when baby Isaiah lost hope, I was in the hands of a woman.

She sang the most beautiful song that I ever heard. 

I'll love you forever.

I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living

My baby you'll be."

Baby Isaiah instantly stopped crying. I knew that song. I looked into the eyes of the woman. I recognized her: my mom! The one who adopted me, was holding me now.

I woke up with tears on my face. I felt... happy. My mom, my real mom, the one who told me jokes, sang to me and read me books, held me. Then I remembered the song in my dream. It's from the book that my mom read to me when I was little. The book is called Love You Forever. In the book, a baby is born. His mom held him and sang the song from my dream. The boy grows up, and yet the mother still goes into his room every night and sings him the song.

Eventually the boy is a man, and has a child. He sings the song that his mother sang to him.

My mom tries so hard to make me happy. She regrets never being able to rock me. Today, I guess, I wished I had that chance. I wish now, that I had made the most of every day great for her.

I found that book this morning. When I finished reading it, I flipped to the first page. My mom inscribed it to me eight years ago. This is what it said:

My sweet Isaiah-
 Sometimes there doesn't need to be any occasion to give a gift when you're giving part of your heart. That's what this book is- a special message to you from me. Just remember that there isn't a single moment of a single day that I don't love you forever. Because I do. I love you forever.
                                                                                                                        Love Mommy.
                                                                                                                        May 14, 2005

One day, when I have my first child, I will remember everything my mom did for me. I love you mom, I truly do.

And I'll never forget that you'll love me forever and you'll like me for always. And as long as you're living, I'll always be your baby.

For once, I can't help but feel happy.

                                                                         

© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Painful photos from the past

Today was no different from every other day. I woke up. I ate. I went through the motions. My family went through stacks of papers and binders that were piled in the garage.

My dad left for work, so I brought in boxes and containers with papers inside of them. My mom and I went through the stacks, looking at pictures and adoption material.

There were my dad's work papers and anything else people could dream up.

That's when we ran into my old life's pictures.

In the stack, were pictures of my birth mom, birth sister, old family. On the back of most, there were captions, telling me who each person was. On a few of the pictures, there were letters, to me. I felt as if I had been slapped in the face.

I never wanted to be reminded of my past. But every day I am reminded.

Every day, someone else wants to know what happened to my birth mom, and every day I tell them, I don't know and I don't care.

But today, I was reminded that all my ignorance, was a lie. I do care. Even when I want to hide it. It rips me apart inside, just to know what she did with her life after I left.

I am scared.

Will the answer be good? Do I even truly care? Sometimes I feel guilty. The parents that I have, love me. They do everything they can just for  me. And all I think about, is the life that was taken from me.

I am angry.

I should have never looked at those pictures. To think, I will turn 18 next year. I will be an adult. An adult, that gets angry every time he hears his birth mom's name.

I am hurt.

Nothing will ever change that. I can not express my pain. I can only do it in the best place and way I know how: In my home, written in words.

I am torn.
That memories and pictures could so easily inflict wounds.

That is all I have to say.

I won't look to make it right. That won't change what I feel or believe. I only hope that she has changed her life.

And that every memory hurts her as much as it does for me.




© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Track season never ends

It can be said that track season never ends. Over the years, I have come to believe that statement is true. Call it an accident. Call it intervention. Call it providence. But involvement in the sport that I love is no joke. I don’t believe in luck. Luck does not win a state championship. When I say that track season never ends, I really mean that the time I spend preparing yourself does not change. I prepare the same whether it is training season or competition season. That is the lesson that I have learned. That I am still learning.

When I learned that my detaching retinas would end my spring soccer season before it started, I was devastated. I had come from not knowing anything about soccer to being the leading goal scorer on my team. And I admit, I had an ego about it. Soccer just seemed too easy for me. That all changed the day I was told that I would not be playing soccer the next season. Unsure of what I would do with myself during the spring, my mom suggested track. Reluctantly, I agreed.

I signed up for track. It was my seventh grade year. There were no tryouts. No one got cut from the team. Countless people had told me that I was fast—that speed was my advantage in soccer. It was time to test that out on the track.

I didn’t miss a single practice. Then, came the day of my first track meet. We were facing Reynoldsburg middle school. I was very nervous, not knowing what to expect or what the outcome would be. I learned that the sprinters ran in heats ordered by ability. Due to my speed, I was in the first heat. I chose to run in the 100-meter dash, the 400-meter relay, and the 800-meter relay.

When it came time for the first heat of the first race, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure where this would lead me. The track was empty in front of me. Mine to claim.

What would I think about this when it was all over?

“On your marks!”

 I got on my knees, palms facing the ground. Sure my form was wrong. Questioning everything about this race.

“Set!”

My body raised as adrenaline rushed through my body. No time to think. Or question. Or wonder.

“GO!”

I jumped off the blocks and ran with all the speed I could muster. I came in third place. And as I bent over resting my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, I came to the realization that I loved that feeling. Of an empty track. Of using every muscle in my body to pour myself onto that track.

I loved this sport and from that first race and every day since I promised myself I would do whatever it took to be the best. That year, my school went to the district meet and got first place.

That was two years ago …

“In lane six, Isaiah Henn from Westland,” I raised my hand to show the starter that I was here. I was on the varsity track team my freshman year in high school.  I was again in the first heat. This time was different though. I could feel it. This year was going to be great.

Long jump was my favorite this year. I was undefeated going into our fourth meet. You could say this next meet was a rivalry, since our high schools are located practically right next to each other.  My school district is pretty big. There are four high schools—all of them with more than 1,000 students.

We traveled to Franklin Heights on a beautiful evening. The weather was good. The team was energized. I was confident. My first jump of four was a new personal record. I jumped 19 feet  11^3/4  inches. Still in first place, I was feeling good about myself and I left the sand pit to run my race. I jumped off the blocks and raced as fast as I could. As fast as my trainers and coaches had been teaching me. And I finished the race crossing the line with a new record of 11.3 seconds.

Something wasn't right though. I started to walk and felt a popping in my leg. Pain shot through my left leg and up into my glutes. I limped off to see my coach so that it could be wrapped. Thinking it was just a muscle strain, I went back to jumping. It hurt a lot, but I finished my jumps. I went to do the 400-meter relay. I was second leg on my team. It was a very close race. When the baton came to me, we were behind. I raced ahead and passed the baton to the next person. As I stopped running, I immediately felt a burning sensation in my leg. It was unbearable.

After checking in with my parents, I had it checked out by the trainer and it was determined that I wouldn't be able to run in the next meet. I was hurt  very bad. I went to the doctor. She told me that I had torn my hamstring. I started physical therapy and continued physical therapy for the next four weeks. Those four weeks were the most horrible and longest weeks of my life. All of my teammates were competing. I sat in the stands and watched. I lost my spot in the 400-meter relay.

I was so excited and nervous to get back to competing. My first meet back from that injury was tough. It was like I was starting all over again. Slower times. Shorter jumps. Lower confidence. By the second meet, I was getting better.

I made it back to competition just in time for OCC championship meet. I was very nervous considering that I needed to place third or above in the long jump to get to the districts. Needless to say, I got third  place in the finals with a new personal record of 20 feet 1 inch and I qualified to compete in the districts competition. I was one of only two students on my team to get a medal.

Districts proved to be the most nervous time of the year for me. I needed to place fourth or better to go to regionals. I was in the second flight of nearly 50 total jumpers. Each jumper would get three jumps and the nine students with the longest jumps would be in the finals later that day.

I was desperate to be part of that nine.

With one jump left,  I took a deep breath. As I had told myself two years earlier, when the most important thing in my life was to run, when decisions didn't matter or a single mistake did not cost so much, I had to make this moment count.

Where would this lead me? What would I think about this when it was all over?

With that in mind, I looked all around. People had come to watch me. My parents and siblings were there. My Grammy. Other students from my high school. My mom was tweeting and instagramming the whole thing. I realized that this moment was the start of something bigger. For me. And for my family.

I focused in on the board with only one thought in my mind: I will not let them down.

Adrenaline rushed through my body as it had done two years earlier, and I started to run. I hit the board perfectly and I jumped. The world seemed to slow down as I hung in the air. I was able to process so much and forget so much at the same time. It was a high, long, exhilarating jump. I felt my body descend, and when I finally landed, I felt amazing. Like I had just given everything I could. I stepped out of the pit. “20 feet 2^1/4 inches,” the judge said. I set a new personal record! I was in the finals!

I jumped in the nineteens in the final. When the last jump was made, I knew that I had not made it to the regional competition. I was disappointed when I learned that I was in fifth place, just inches from going to the regionals. I didn't respond well to what I considered a failure. I would not let it go. I was tired of being barely in or barely out of competitions. It did not matter if I was just a freshman. Or that I had only been back to competing for 14 days. It didn't matter to me how many more years I have to go. I was upset that it was all over.

Then, I was told that the track season never ends. In a way, I guess that statement is right. The district track meet was a few weeks ago, and I just spent last week of my summer at a track camp. Hours of running, conditioning and teamwork in the only place I feel inspired. On the track in the place I hope to run and compete someday. The place that I would love to go to college—that I think can best prepare me for another one of my dreams: the Olympics. That place is Ohio State, where they taught me that I could never be perfect.

Accidents happen, I realize that. I guess that’s why I run from my problems. Track wasn't an accident though. There is a reason I was introduced to this sport.  It might have been to learn from those better than me. I believe that it was to learn patience. Whatever the reason, track has inspired me to do more, to know more, to be more. In reality, that is all that I am asking for.

I will not stop preparing, no matter what. I have overcome a lot since seventh grade. Looking back, that’s all that I asked for. I am sure that in a few more years I will realize that I did make the right choice. Track and field is MY sport. Crouching down, adrenaline flowing, my head is clear. With the whole track empty in front of me, I cannot wait to show my opponents that all I do is prepare. For competition. And for life.

© 2013 Isaiah P. Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Isaiah P. Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.