There are days where I sit on my porch
And watch the sun hang in a low,
Lazy bauble with
Spun sugar lacing the sky

There's a day I've set up a lamp
I've bought for myself
And then wash the dishes
Where pomegranate scented bubbles
Soak my rolled up sleeves

Days I force myself to do laundry
Because I hate the monotony of it
The necessity of it
Even though it's a breath of fresh air
When done

Days of filling the silence with
Gentle croons of blues and jazz
And the feeling of wet, cold paint
Between my hands and a canvas
Or the stickiness of cookie dough
Between my fingers
And the wash of heat against my face
When the oven door opens

In these small ways, somehow,
I am healing,
Though I do not know what from

Just that these scars are paling
If only a little
And the pain in my chest settles
Into something like an echo
Or a memory
Something tolerable

Something bearable.