Mother

Just when I think I’ve crossed the line, I’m good, it’s real, I’m ready to be open, to tell my parents how I’ve lost my faith and because of that how much I love life now, Mother says, “I’ve been praying for you.” And I want to cry, to crumble, to fall on my knees, crumple to the floor exhausted and empty and lost, but willing to be found.

Except, it never worked that way.

Winter

Earth turns against us, dark, cold, deadly. Merciless, bitter wind seeks every warm space it can find, seeping through clothes, into cars, passing through glass, wood, and concrete, violating our homes. We layer socks and sweaters then boots and bulky coats and mittens, thick scarves, and ugly hats. Still teeth chatter, muscles shiver, tense, then lock. Cold sears sinuses and lungs, sucks moisture from skin like poison. Little ghostly death omens escape our mouths. Winter descends and we can do nothing.

So who was that?

So then
who was that
whispering in my ear
words like
You are safe.
I’ve got you here in the palm of my hand.
Don’t be afraid.
I will always love you.
I will take care of you.
Love me? Love them.
It will get better?

Perhaps,
it was
the same person
who was saying
things like
What now?
I feel like I’m falling.
This can’t be happening.
Am I that unlovable?
What will I do without him?
What a monster!
There’s no way out.