In your attempts to be my father, you took away my mother.
When I look at the vast expanse of willows swaying in the wind humming a fading lullaby to me absorbing the years I have lived
I feel the earth around me, dampening the ache in my chest. It is so beautiful I could cry. A sea of green life carrying the weight of all my self loathing, your words, memories of the sweet sting in my chest and an inability to craft the words that would make you stop.
Quietly stripped of excuses, the anger blows away like cotton until there is nothing left to face but my own desolation. I am peeled open and pouring out
Maybe this is why you cry at thousand year old Catholic cathedrals the yellow and gray carved stone, patriarchal monuments to destroying the natural way a thing is and rebuilding it in the image of a god that replaced the father you never had as if the world were only beautiful if it were man-made as if what you were given wasn’t enough
In the wetlands I try to wear your mask and picture a vast city of renaissance architecture and cobblestone streets, marvel at the echoes of an older world. I imagine what it would be like to to have such an ignorance to everything here that I could tear it apart and create something that attempts the intricacies of a system far older and wiser.
But I see peace and patience and release and god in juniper waves in the diving swallows that frighten you I see joy and freedom I cannot understand, I will not understand how I am meant to be more important than all of this
Lying in a pool of grass, I breathe out your expectations like smoke refill my lungs in the cool breeze of my wetland mother Without a castle or a church, I am enough