The bad luck raised suspicions, on a path that was beat down.
No one dared to look within or see the wise men in the town.
It was happening for eons, as long as Grandad could recall.
Like a dark foreboding plank walk or a dream in which you fall.
Until the child spoke her words that, “Maybe somethings wrong with me?”
So we made a meeting with the Doc, down at the Family Psychiatry.
The doctor raised awareness and we all took a look.
Things are looking so good now, might take Grandma off the hook.
Now life is far from perfect however the family’s not so sad.
Looking in the mirror, not blaming blind luck, good or bad.
Dennis Mantin 
This poem carries a quiet strength and a deep tenderness that lingers. It traces the weight of inherited fear and misunderstanding with remarkable honesty, especially how “bad luck” can become a convenient shadow when answers feel too hard to face. The imagery is subtle but effective—the worn path, the falling dream, the long memory of generations—each line reinforcing how long silence can last in families.
What truly shines is the turning point: the child’s brave self-questioning and the decision to seek understanding rather than blame. That shift from superstition and resignation to awareness and care is handled with grace, not drama. It feels real, earned, and hopeful without pretending everything is suddenly perfect.
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It is real and what I consider to be my best…
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