tiny meager mighty things

How do we hear what speaks in echoes?

if we hush our breath

can we hear the ancestors dance?

is that my ancestor’s skirt rustling in the wind?

who but the gods can tell

with their journals full of secrets

like Laplace and his demon

chronicling memories of the past

creating infinite space for future dreams

Isis

sits scrawling lazily

tiny meager mighty things

Icarus

spreads their wings and shoots

directly into the sun

on earth we call it lightning

as their wings fall from the clouds

feathers scatter then burn

before ever reaching ground

Thinning fabric

We broke up the other day, I’m trying to pretend not to notice

Truth to tell we were never really together

I try to recall the times you’ve broken my heart

I’ve let them fade into the fabric of our story

Fabric worn thin by my worrying hands retracing patterns again and again

Trying to commit us to memory

I glance at your piece of our cloth, you’ve cut out bits of us, leaving patches in our truth

I wonder if you remember what it looked like before you erased us

Does your mind recall how beautiful we were?

Threads woven together bright and dark, hazy and shining

Like sun breaking through clouds after a raging storm

These days, you see only the storm, can only take in the chaos

Should your fingers try to retrace us, they’d find holes held together by trivial pieces of our memory

I still see us, breaking boldly through clouds

Weaving our story together with threads of tenderness, laughter and pain

How could you cut us apart?

I’ve kept my piece intact; fingers retrace our history at times lovingly, at times mournful

Feeling always where we’ve thinned out

Our fabric is worn, the time has come to put us away

Tracing patterns once more I fold us up and place us in my dresser, next to old faded sweatshirts of love gone by

What you choose to do with your fabric, I have no say

For my part, I’ll keep mine hidden and safe

Neatly folded and forgotten as we carry on the aimless game we play

We broke up the other day and today, the sun is hidden away

Skies are dark, dreary and grey, contented to stay that way

Christmas

There is a change in perception which comes as years drag on. I’ve seen twenty-five of these days and they’ve each held their own tone, flavor, scent.  In younger years the senses were clouded, hazy, blissful.  Sheltered in the lies told to children, lies about the world, about the holidays, family.

Teen years the haze got denser, sadder, angrier.  I knew I had been lied to, but I couldn’t tell you how or why. I still played along with the script of deceit laid out for me because I knew of no other alternative.

Twenties though, those are the fun years. Sight keener, haze dissipates, almost disappears until the truth can be seen.  I sit here on this day, Christmas day. Alone, without family and I see. I see the how and some of the why of years, months, days past and I understand.  The truth of it. 

The truth hurts though.  How can it not ? I see the things done to me as a child. I see how poorly they were handled. I see how easily I am cut and sliced from the pages of family history. Blood matters. Papers don’t.  They joked about shredding my adoption papers. Because it was funny. Because it didn’t hurt. Because that’s what they did.  They chose time and time and time again. And I was never the choice. I was always second.

So I sit here, alone, on this day and I see through the haze. I see the truth.