No solution, just a complex formula,
of unequal parts, an unending, unspoken dialogue, of
what they said, she said, he said, I said, then around again,
over, and over, and over, and over,
like a worn-down needle, stuck in a worn-out groove.
It was like this in our family, we kept things in, like forgiveness, compassion, trust, we placed them on a dusty shelf;
our hurts, our disappointments, our pain, especially our pain,
never to be discussed, understood, or pardoned,
these feelings on the shelf more aware of desired healing than we.
Then suddenly it would be over, the sacred relief, the last breath
weary from misunderstanding and stubborn righteousness,
no gentleness, no love of self, no comfortable arms to rest in,
just a deep, painful sadness, a silent shiver, a giving up and then in,
and still the shelf remained, heavy, cluttered, ready for next generation.