The One That Got Away
Since I find it difficult to write about my experience in detail (honestly there's just too much to share) poetry is often an easier outlet. I figured I'd start this community off with something I wrote just before father's day....
To whom it may concern,
My childhood was extraordinary. Fairy moss daydreams, the trickle of ice cold water in the spring, rolling pastures brushed by thick summer air, bird feathers and braided horse hair, rocks of magic and mystery, the quiet comfort of an empty forest, waterfalls coated in fallen leaves rushing, deathly quiet evenings muffled in snow that make your fingers and toes numb, only to be brought back to life by the crackle of a wood stove. The smell of roses and grammy’s oatmeal cookies, a diet coke, and the crunch of crispy lettuce in a tuna sandwich live in my memory.
It’s hard for me to say that my childhood was difficult. I was raised wild, surrounded by siblings, animals, and hard work. But pained by a persistent loneliness. Voices gathered in the tall chapel ceilings, the smell of incense loomed, and my father’s stern presence maintained our obedience.
A passive mother, kind but empty. A strong father, interesting but unpredictable. Volatility lived with us in our home. Passivity was its roommate. Chaos simmered in the hallways, cries went unattended to, left to burn out like a short wick. Smothered quickly if heavy feet approached.
A knot in my throat developed early, hard and impossible to swallow. A father’s emotions felt like my responsibility. “Must keep the home afloat and steer clear of choppy waters.” Steadfast I attempted to wield justice where I could, carrying a weight that was far too heavy for such a small girl. Barefoot and determined to be three times larger than I was. No one would hurt the people I loved, and loved my Father, I did.
Baby brother quiet and shy, underneath bubbles boiled and steam shot out, like the geysers in Yellowstone. Held him close to my breast the best I could, sheltering him from the storms. His hand in mine we weathered our fear, supporting one another like the A frame of a barn that burned. Amidst the ash and rubble, the smell of smoke thick with rain, I walked away.
Swing batter batter, swing. A crack of the bat to build a life that prioritized stillness. I knew peace existed, I felt it in my loneliness. Swing and a miss? I did, but I did not give up. Thunder snapped, crackled, and popped, the ground shook, and I emerged. Vulnerable and raw, but only I knew the fragility of my bones. Just as the ocean clashes against blocks of granite, I refuse to erode.
Today I sit, writing this. I don’t know how to merge the two worlds even if I wanted to. A lack of love was never the problem, survival was.
To whom it may concern,
Why?
Why can you not look in the mirror and choose love over shame? We both know what you did well, and what you didn’t, and I loved you anyway. Does your shadow scare you more than it inspires? I suppose I don’t need to see your reaction to my art in order to know I created it.
Sincerely,
The one that got away