Six years ago, the diamond on my finger glittered and shone
Like a childhood memory of Valentine’s Day morning and a glass of milk dyed pink
Like a child’s memory of a birthday party and presents wrapped in bows
Until reality took hold, shook the waters from branches above, drowning my sorrows
with the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink.
Six years ago, I was on a track, on a neverending track to be the perfect wife to an angry man.
I ironed chef uniforms, cleaned the house, painted the walls, lit candles, worked an unfulfilling job, went to a school that I never discussed no matter how enlightened I became, and didn’t dare make friends because I wasn’t allowed to.
I fought for the idea that it wasn’t the right time to have children, even as we chose baby names, and who was I kidding?
that picket fence was looming near.
Six years ago, I was standing in our home that I made beautiful, that was stifling, the baby blue paint coating the inside of my throat until I had to leave
just to breathe.
My future was perfectly framed in a princess cut:
If I had stayed, I would be standing there pregnant, packing our stuff yet again, to move back to a small town that I would never claim and would never claim me, and he would have blown his brains out just the same or beat me.
It wouldn’t have been pretty; I cry ugly.
Six years ago, I struggled to believe that everyone didn’t have lives like this.
Who did I know that was happy?
Who did I know that was sane?
Marriage and love and duty and despair were synonymous,
until the sadness drove me away,
And the guilt dogged every single step, every single breath,
Laying in an empty bed
Leaving a man I loved behind.
Five years ago, I danced, I pranced, I drank, I partied those precious moments away.
I got that call, and my heart broke.
My grandmother said I would be blamed: don’t go back, don’t go home; you won’t make it anyway.
Angry, so angry, I never got to curse at your face
Like a childhood memory of the ‘age of accountability’ and the false perception it was my choice to be baptized.
Like the child’s memory of seeing all, only smiles in public and all, only imperfections at home.
My silence haunts me, gnaws at me, constantly reminds me that there is more to say.
Two years ago, a friend of a friend committed their ultimate act of personal self-care, as they defined it.
Life was enough and it was easier and more beautiful to say goodbye on their terms.
Suicide is selfish, so selfish, but is it really when swaddled in such a way?
Four years ago, three years ago, two: I’m learning, always learning. I see and I act and I move.
Emotional exhaustion, but all worth the reward.
I refuse to succumb to staying afloat, wading, waiting.
The sleepy life affects me like any nightmarish past. Joints catastrophically stiff from car accidents and desire for difference. A look in the mirror as I slowly deteriorate is enough of a shock to bring me back, like the first snowfall, I am bright and shiny once more.
Yoga keeps me limber, my mind awake as if a snooze button was never invented.
Let’s meet, let’s talk; I want to know you.
The new, the ugly, the hidden truth, that one can grow old and learn nothing, higher education is hardly applicable to real life.
So I sit with my thoughts, your thoughts, teach me by moving me, stimulate my growth.
Plant seeds, leave a flag, cry on the bathroom floor, mourn the loss of your old self until you emerge from the ashes.
The light doesn’t always shine brighter after the dark… at least, not right away.
But every winter, there comes a spring.
Away We Go 