on freight trains.
and stale bread.
We were friends once,
you and I.
in our sagging jeans
and worn in leather.
Your face haunts nothing now,
it’s just sad, is all.
To think of you,
in a field of wheat
and tractor tracks,
holding her cold
and colorless hand
She wouldn’t want this for you.
if you let it,
Chains aren’t your only keeper.
‘Tis the mind,
broken and weak,
overtaken by perverse tendrils
of wicked thought
that holds you captive.
Break what binds you.
Let sunlight in.
Sitting on that familiar couch, holding my hand in his, he took responsibility for my hurt. He acknowledged his absence and his shortcomings. He named my deepest pain, cutting at the root of the poison.
Tears carelessly careened down my cheeks.
I was overwhelmed.
Healing like this was hard to fathom and difficult to accept. Wounds, that have haunted me for years, picked themselves up and made their way towards the exit sign.
Each time I looked at him, I broke into deep wrenching sobs. So I stopped looking at him.
I reminded myself to remain present in the moment – to not let my mind wander. This was important. Huge, in fact. I’d waited years to hear these words come out of his mouth.
To say it was beautiful would be an understatement. Healing. Freeing. Heart-breaking. Draining. Comforting. Blessing.
Father’s are a tricky subject at the best of times. I know few people who have had wonderful relationships with their fathers. Most people that I encounter have had to climb mountains or cross oceans in search of a meaningful relationship with their father. Thus, this longing for closeness with one’s father becomes a large part of a person’s identity, and often acts as a bothersome reminder of hidden war wounds and battle scars.
That night, I received a beautiful, heart-breaking gift: my father, humbling himself before me and taking ownership over some my deepest hurts.
It was a giant band-aid and a bucket full of tears. It was a scene that I’ll never forget.
Gold and color
embraced each other like old friends,
content and confident.
“We’re glad you’ve come”
they said to me.
Bangles danced on wrists
and ornate fabrics draped themselves
over bodies filled with anticipation and oxygen.
I looked around,
white girl in a room full of color,
and I felt at home.
At home in the Middle East
with the sand in the streets
and blackened corn on the grill
of the corner store
selling fanta and halva
and pink pickled onions.
Childhood memories that won’t fade,
a heart pre-programmed to love,
an imagination always ready for adventure,
for travel. That’s me.
Today I went to India and Africa.
Engulfed in the warmth of a dear friend’s home,
soaking up the culture that swirled around me,
marvelling at the speed with which
the sweet girl was colouring my skin with henna,
smiling at the proud stance of the groom’s father,
gazing wondrously at the table piled
high with samosas and sweets.
These two should get married every weekend
I thought to myself while giggling.
Thank you Tina and Kupa
for inviting me into your fantastically coloured world.
You filled the doorway with that fire-hazard of a coat
and I thought to myself,
damn I’m lucky.
Not cause of the cupboard maintenance
or the many times that I’ve taken up space in your Volvo.
Crack open the moss covered hood that you cling to
and you’re as real as a ripe Granny Smith.
Untamed and surprisingly soft.
You give of yourself,
breaking my countenance,
reminding me why I’m here.
Rain drops caress the stubble on your face
and make your eyes smile.
There’s mischief there.
Yes. Let’s do it. Let’s go.
Live life, spark fires,
howl at the moon.
Let’s live dangerously, you and I,
Never looking back.