I called to make peace, my head both raised and bowed in defense and apology Her words biting and wounded, "I think you're fake," She adds, "You're a fake ass bitch." I politely disagree. I attempt repair. I feel both scorned and pushed away. I feel defeat and self-protection. Years later, I wonder about her words. I decide that, maybe I am. You see, being nice isn’t always the answer. And I’ve learned that the hard way.
Tag: reflection
Sand
I arrive at the
front door of a house
that holds
the dynamics
of family
as pervasive
and as deep
as a bloodline.
At the doorstep I
witness the
lines of
victim-hood
blended with
the incessant
need to be right.
In the doorway
I take a breath
in anticipation.
I notice the sand
that's been carried in on
the feet of
my beloved
family members.
I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my own
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower.
I wonder
about the
rifts 20 years
in the making
and what they've
done to the floors
of this home.
They seem as
ubiquitous
and invisible
until felt
as the sand that
found its way
into the
fabrics
of this family.
The floors take the brunt of it
scratched and rubbed down
until layers of coating
are exposed raw
until the foundation of this
home cannot
hold the weight
of what we bring to it.
At the doorway
I look inside.
I see my mom and
her sister sitting
at the kitchen table.
I wonder what it is
I do not know
about the sand
between their own toes
particles they may not even
feel anymore
since its become
ingrained
into the way things are.
I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my feet
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower.
Sand belongs on the
shoreline
where the ocean can
do with it
as she pleases.
Here, the sand
clogs and scratches
it irritates and hollows.
I take another breath
remove my shoes.
I wash my feet of the
abrasive
and the stubborn.
I take care not to step
in the sand
my family
carries in.
April 1st
You share you haven’t
written
in two months.
I’m startled at the idea
that you’ve not reflected
or been struck
by inspiration
No
note
not even a poem
or paragraph
while I’ve written about you
most days.
I’ve written about you
since the night
I thought
you were something other
than who you turned
out to be.
Reflection
She says to me,
“You get to figure this all out.
What a beautiful
challenge to overcome.”
She suggests I look
not to the trauma
or the pain
but the fear.
Fear of being left.
Fear of being seen.
“You look through lenses
scratched and clouded.
You feel through fear.
Until you know your ground,
until you know
what you want
and expect nothing less,
you’ll continue to question.
You’ll continue to feel doubt.”
I look to her
tears decades old
decorate my face.
“So what now?”
She looks at me with
a knowing smile.
“You already know.”
The Restless Crescent 