Do you see it? The way the land piques beneath us, like your skin, my fingers hovering millimeters above it, anticipating my touch. Touch. The streets are scars and the rivers arteries feeding the body.
“Let the first act of every morning be to make the following resolve for the day: - I shall not fear anyone on Earth. - I shall fear only God. - I shall not bear ill will toward anyone. - I shall not submit to injustice from anyone. - I shall conquer untruth by truth. And in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering.” —Mahatma Gandhi
You know where to find your happiness. It's in your heart. Follow it. Fear and logic may lead you down the path of least resistance because it's easier and far less terrifying, but you'll never be able to silence the aching whine emanating from your chest. Listen to it.
What can you tell me now that you couldn’t one year ago? Could you tell me how your reflection in the mirror has changed with such fervent subtlety that you hardly recognize the person you once were? Could you describe to me the palpable feeling of the shattering of such long-held presumptions of yourself? Could you tell me how fucking beautiful the silencing of such familiar doubts in your head can be? Could you tell me how your smile is an accessory you rarely leave home without?
Blanket me with the soft shroud of the setting sun's fiery mantle of clouds before I get too lost in the cold dark of the universe, before the moon soothes me to sleep with its stories of brave explorers who long ago hovered sweetly above its lonely ground, before my fingers become raw with lucid memories of the earth's thorny skin.
You would be 54 today, Dad. And I can hardly fathom it. Sometimes, it feels like the only language I know is time and we commune in years. I can still remember when we'd speak in days and hours and minutes, but it's been a while now, for both of us.
It's rare that a day goes by that I'm not reminded of my hearing loss. There are so many things said to me or around me that I miss. I constantly feel like I'm on the outside of inside jokes or simply a quiet observer to a world I don't completely understand.
Do you remember the first time I told you I loved you, sweetpea? I meant every word of that sentence. I meant it with every force within me that propels me forward. I meant it with the self same honesty and intention I feel when I hold your jaw in the palm of my hand, when I get my fingers tangled in yours and when I touch my lips to your earlobe.
The city swallowed you whole, but you climbed its walls to spite its fervor, digging your fragile claws into the merciless concrete, yearning to escape and inflate your lungs with the unstained air. Run like wildfire, baby, before they gauge your eyes from their sockets, before the hollowed savages press their sawlike teeth into your penetrable flesh and tear, tear, tear.
It devours me until my heart aches in longing and grief. You were like a mesa too vertical to climb. You were the smell of desert rain I couldn't inhale enough of, elusive and solemn and captivating in your intangibility.
As we were driving through the city a few nights ago I said "I feel lonely in this city. It's cold and unwelcoming and I don't have any ties or connections here." And it's true, I feel displaced in Denver, a fact I keep hoping will change in time.
And I wanna sit outside in the dark except for the light of the distant moon with you and marvel at the perfectly ludicrous idea that men have traveled that far from home. We're both far from home and yet here we are - contently home.
I am my mother and father's only child and thus I am inherently the sole creation and survivor of their violent and combustible union. I am the only witness and I am the lonely product of a regrettable amalgamation.
"Come with every wound and every woman you’ve ever loved; every lie you’ve ever told and whatever it is that keeps you up at night. Every mouth you’ve punched in, all the blood you’ve ever tasted. Come with every enemy you’ve ever made and all the family you’ve ever buried and every dirty thing you’ve ever done; every drink that’s burnt your throat and every morning you’ve woken with nothing and no one. Come with all your loss, your regrets, sins, memories, black outs, secrets. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you." —Warsan Shire
I wish I could just come home and make everything alright for you. I wish I wouldn't regret not taking a chance and wonder for years ahead if I did that. I wish we were better for each other. I wish this journey I've taken to get some questions answered for myself wasn't hurting you so deeply in the process. I wish I'd realized how much you loved me when we were together. I wished I'd felt it.
Sometimes you have to follow your stupid fucking heart even when it feels like it's dragging you through the mud, through the darkest depths of Hell with no promise of emerging, when it completely betrays you and everything you've ever known or believed to be true about your life now and in the days to come.
I see you on the horizon, always just beyond reach 15 years and 1 2 years and 8 Medium term My life is seasons of you and seasons without. Where have you been, Where did you go, I wanna rest my palms on your ribs I wanna feel your chest pressed up against my back I've survived this dust bowl Your ocean colliding with my shores Warmed contently by a rolling fog Obscuring everything but each other