I’m trying to feel comfortable in the spaces…
the times where I’m not really doing anything.
My energy is quiet. I don’t feel as if I should be speaking. I am a listener first and foremost.
“I’m not doing enough to have what I need.”
I don’t feel sad,
maybe this is melancholy. A memory of childhood summers that should have felt better.
I can’t read back for fear of creating more of the same.
I’m not hiding I’m just in need of a nap. A long nap and a brighter sky. A stronger sun to melt the snow.
Why does it feel like the seasons aren’t behaving?
My spring has started and this fire that is rising in me deserves the space to spark:
there is only so much space in time.
I think about the people I love and the ways that they’ve died.
- Grandma Nancy: holding my hand
- Grandpa Tauer: holding my hand
- Grandma Tauer: re-birth, slow
- Uncle Frankie: released to the river
- Great Grandma Audrey: Alone on her porch in the winter
- Great Grandpa Alec: Couldn’t breath
I wonder how I’ll go.
I fight with my mortality and find my strength in the feeling of surrender. Power in powerlessness.
I fear that my loved ones will go somewhere that I can’t find them or that I’ll leave them behind.
I found Grandma Nancy in the stillness that came in the winter wetland. I found comfort in being alone. Not lonely, just alone.
I used to hate when people would say, “Don’t worry, she will always live on in your heart.”
What the fuck.
Is that supposed to comfort a child? I wanted to hug her and tell her my dreams.
I still want to hug her and tell her my dreams.
So there is that, death and dying. And there is this, living, breathing, watching my daughter explore color meeting a page. Finding out what I sound like without tightness clasped around my throat.