I remember you… cute dresses, bright eyes up and ahead, sun-kissed tresses, shades of smiles genuine, wonder and hope and appreciation, giving, giving, car conversations with Him, up, up chin, letting others in, learning to break patterns to protect from theft what’s mine within.
I remember you, am returning now, will keep on the journey toward the true and beautiful Daughter, self.
Thank you, Lord, for the friends who saw me through it with You (again)…
I am fueled by storms and coastal wind as I raise my arms to each and channel them until empowerment rises boldly from within…
But it is in the still and minute, in the soft scent of beautiful, in the trust of subtle, the barely discernible, that I feel the forgotten soothed, those buried-alive non-truths; the golden elixir single ray finding the torn petal coats in those places I am not able to ever reach on my own.
Up close and personal is the only way I know to heal my heart, to feed my soul, and that, I believe, is the path that leads home.
Moments drip drop, first molecules floating to fall, and when the basin is filled, our time is up.
Let me taste each one individually upon my upturned mouth.
May I spend the least amount in flood or drought, paned, sheltered or drowned.
Let me feel it all though; to offer an umbrella or call me inside is to deny me each elixir dose to my soul’s life.
Moments shared with others, even fleeting in passing, make up the ocean of emotion that fills and propels me most deeply.
When the last sun sets, I know I cannot take any drops with even though they became a part of my very composition, but heaven is in the clouds for a reason, and I believe from these drops within, another birthing will begin…
I have always been one to so easily lose myself, to be lured so very far away, in a painting, a song, a window…
In the years of his cussing at me, I would often detach, escape, into this 1890 white-wooden-framed window… Thank you, Vincent.
I was overweight and often wore comfortable, baggy, masculine clothes. He said dresses did not look good on me. My hair was much shorter then. He said I didn’t look good with it longer.
I was trapped in that marriage, I always (erroneously) felt. From the beginning, it seemed. From the very, very hesitant, “I do” when I was six months pregnant. Twenty-four slow years of the same-old cycle (after cycle), same broken record played over and over.
I wanted to be the young lady in the painting. Mostly because she was far away from the cigarette-butt-and-beer-can scented patio. Mostly because I bet she could hear the birds singing. Mostly because I felt the freedom in the breeze that teased her tresses and hem.
When he finally agreed to leave once and for all, he took the painting. I think he knew…
My daughter wanted to get it back for me. Eventually, I asked too. He said no. This past Christmas, my daughter was going to get me a replica. I told her I don’t really want it anymore, that he ruined even that for me.
But then I realized, I didn’t need it anymore. Because I was now her.
Cussing cacophony chokes me. Into my secret garden, I escape; surrounded by white flowers and open air, I inhale both in deeply. If his bowl were not empty, the words would not be so nasty. A bottle smashes, but I know I will only be beaten verbally. I run farther into the open fields until all I can hear is the birds’ sweet euphony soothing me. The lady left behind is a statue of stone. Eventually, he will pass out cold. I’ll stay out here a while longer, tuck behind my ear a keepsake wildflower, run my fingers over the soft-tipped grasses, consider staying forever on the other side of this glass, but I can’t leave her. I head back. Morning rays have again made their rounds, but upon the wet pillow, a petal has drowned.
But that was then, and this is now.
Thank you, love, for the continuous cleaning of the mirrorsof my past, for your endless patience, for making meevery day blush calling me beautiful and princess, for being my rain and sun blooming me into this miracle of self-love .