the stories that made me
Remember
that summer
morning when
we played barefoot
in your backyard
until we were so tired
that we fell asleep
in the shade
of the trees?
Every day since then
I’ve hoped
that maybe
we’re still asleep
on that cool grass,
and our mothers
are about to wake us up
for lunch.
If I could bend sunlight
Into bangles
I’d set up my shop
Right under your window.
And every morning,
When you draw
Your curtains apart
To greet the day,
I’d gather the rays
That touched your face
And make you something
To adorn your wrists
Before you head to work.
I grab the night
with my hand
like a handful of soil,
and let the stars
through my fingers
float softly
to the ground
so all that’s left
in my palm
is the moon
then I rub it gently
against the sleeve
of my pajamas
until it’s shiny enough
to gift to you.
Yesterday I had a couple of moles surgically removed from my back for examination. Nothing serious, I hope. Anyway, that’s not the story.
The story is that I now have two sets of stitches exposed on my back, and when I got home yesterday, I took this opportunity to toy with Rakan’s imagination.
I told him that I had a fight with a monster earlier today and the monster dug its claws into my back.
He saw the scars and stitches and seemed very proud of his dad. He asked me, “Did it hurt?” and I told him it hurt a lot, but I defeated the monster in the end.
But then I told him the truth because there are no monsters bla bla because I don’t want him to be afraid of going to bed at night because if he sleeps late then I will have less time to be an alcoholic (which is the real monster I’m trying to defeat here but I’m losing every day).
The moral of the story is: Parenting is harder than getting stitches.
There is gossip:
Flowers are hiding behind summer’s skirt,
waiting to surprise you.
My windchime
knows only five words
but when it talks
to the breeze
it’s music to my ears.
I was like the wind
mute
in fury
I molded oceans into waves
silently rolled them
onto mountains
until mountains broke down
I scurried
through flowers
hurried through
meadows; wordlessly
carried clouds
birds seeds
to where they’re needed
missed
or loved
then
at the peak of my frustration
I found you
you were like a tree
solid
quiet
sincere
and while you could not educate
or control me
you stood there and watched me fail
to mold roll or carry you
to push you down
you stood
unaffected
as I threw tantrum
after tantrum
until my rage was worn out and tired
until I understood
that I must
slow
down
that my strength
does not
match your frailty
that it’s only when I run my fingers
calmly
peacefully
against your lips
only when I brush your hair gently
that you will open your palms
and give me back
my true voice
