Monday, June 19, 2017

After Rain

These muggy summers have me missing the fresh air of springtime. I miss the budding lilies in your resting place where the softest moss grows in place of tragedy.

Sometimes I run out there through the twigs leaving snags in my shirts and my hands feeling their way through brush. I know I get small cuts on my knuckles but it's worth it to talk to you.

I miss those days when the house would be quiet enough to hear the hum of the geothermal system you managed to experiment with. You would curse under your breath when you found that the basement had flooded (yet again). I would chuckle silently hearing you come up the stairs in a huff.

If you were here I'd ask you if it was alright that I had made all these mistakes in your absence. I would ask you what it is I'm supposed to be looking for.

I would ask you for help.

Mom called this my love letter to my father. I suppose it is, really.

I made my peace long ago not to discuss my pain in full detail with people. I never wanted to be a burden, just like I never wanted this to be for anyone who reads it.

I've waited too long again to write on here. I've been masking my pain again.

I didn't tell anyone how painful Father's Day was without you here. The house was quiet like it is around this time of year. I wanted to spend it outdoors with sunshine on my face. I wanted the warmth of the light to warm how cold I felt in mid-June.

How is it we still miss you like this?

I wish there was a storm that would pass through and wipe all of this away. Then there we'd all be after the rain had died down with a warm cup of tea in our hands and gentle laughter as we turned the pages of our books.

Written 6.19.17

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Fresh Starts

I can breathe again after months of claustrophobic memories ruling my sleep. They're finally gone.

I am still me, but I'm different somehow. Wiser, perhaps. Maybe a little more safeguarded.

When I let myself be fragile to people who didn't mind hurting me, I had opened myself up for a battle of thorns.

I was growing a black rose garden in my chest, but I've somehow managed to paint them back to red again with forgiveness, watering them with acceptance.

I'm searching instead for kindness and understanding. I think I've seen it too, in a pair of deep brown eyes.

Fresh starts.

It's funny how you never see them coming.

Written 6.3.17