Born of broken people
She inevitably arrived broken too.
No visible signs of damage, but
that really only made things worse, not better.
A white chenille bedspread,
blood stains on the pale pink
roses turned to shadow rust,
faded like the memories of the day
it happened, the stains and scars and rips and tears
nearly blending in now, so many years gone by,
just another part of the pattern.
Understanding remains elusive,
always just out of her grasp, it seems.
She thought it would arrive when her own children did,
that she would suddenly get it, suddenly know,
but of course it didn’t happen that way – this is
real life, after all.
I wrote this many years ago, and have published it online a couple of times since then. I feel absolutely naked every time I do it, but I also hear from people who feel it, and that makes me feel like it’s worth the nakediditty anxiety. Well, almost.