They are my stories

These are not suitcases. They are my stories. I carry them with me, yes, and at times – at 2ams and altitudes – my shoulders slump with their heft. The weight of past mistakes and all of the leaving. I spin the world backward, these times. Searching with my finger across the whirring, blurring globe for home. Are you nostalgic? she asked me once, and I said yes, as I understand it. I think writers, necessarily retrieve. I meant to say that memory matters. The past matters. But those words belong to another, so I left the thought behind.

I do – at times – have to turn myself around.

But these are not suitcases. I do not come with burdens, see. I arrive lush with autobiography. Stories spilling, swimming. I had a farm in Africa. I stood trembling at the door. There was a moment, just before. I sobbed and smiled. Here. And here. And here. I thought-. He was-. She was-. They were-. I was-. He sang in my ear. I shouldn’t have. I did. I came twice as he-. I saw the most-. I travelled to-. It made me feel. This is the … happiest I’ve ever been. Yes! I remember everything.

I remember every thing. I carry it all, swinging, dancing. Hands out, even to my sorrows. I never wanted a calm waters life. Though I waded through his once or twice. Just to see what it is to be light. And I found it heavier than I’d ever imagined, to carry no one thing at all.

Here, let me open for you now. These are not suitcases. They are my stories …

Rock2018

(Remember: Don’t believe a word I say. Just the way I say it)

♥ HAPPY NEW YEAR, dear readers! Here’s to all the stories in 2018 … ♥

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beginnings revisited

If December was her month, then January belonged to me.

She had your traditions and your conclusion, your customs and your god. But the opened gate, the clock ticking forward – every time, the hands reached out for me. I would count your absence down, should auld acquaintance be forgot I’d say before an explosion across the sky that felt something like your hand on my thigh.

And I would think this time it will be different, this year, this me, this us. A baptism of beginnings would be held under the sea, with me brand new when I emerged. Loved, secure, swinging from branches that were made for my frame. I met you and each new year with my skin candied like toffee, my cells realigned, the salt tracks on my cheeks a better kind.

This time it will be different, this year, this me, this us.

Yes, January belonged to me. My landscape lit like a setting sun, and you in the glare when we kicked off the sheets. We glowed with resurrection as the night gave way. This is what happened every time.

But it lasted only until the stars went out. In the grey of morning the year came clean; it marched toward December all over again, and I was set back down where I began. For seven years not a single thing changed – when the layers came off, it was still my skin, still my tissue exposed underneath.

And you still tore at it blindly, still balled me up with the sheets when that first night was done.

This is what happened every time.

(To think that you were the man of faith – when I am the one who kept it).

Joanne Piechota photography at body, remember

Eidyia’s note: I wrote this exactly a year ago. Time takes you further from where you were, it becomes harder to remember. But you do still remember. Quietly. On certain days. At certain times. You still remember.

Beginnings

If December was her month, then January belonged to me.

She had your traditions and your conclusion, your customs and your god. But the opened gate, the clock ticking forward – every time, the hands reached out for me. I would count your absence down, should auld acquaintance be forgot I’d say before an explosion across the sky that felt something like your hand on my thigh.

And I would think this time it will be different, this year, this me, this us. A baptism of beginnings held under the sea, with me brand new when I emerged. Loved, secure, swinging from branches that were made for my weight. I met you and each new year with my skin gone toffee, my cells realigned, the salt tracks on my cheeks a better kind.

This time it will be different, this year, this me, this us.

Yes, January belonged to me. My landscape lit like a setting sun and you in the glare when we kicked off the sheets. We glowed with resurrection as the night gave way. This is what happened every time.

But it lasted only until the stars went out. In the grey of morning the year came clean; it marched toward December all over again, and I was set back down where I began. For seven years not a single thing changed – when the layers came off, it was still my skin, still my tissue exposed underneath. And you still tore at it blindly, still balled me up with the sheets when that first night was done. This is what happened every time.

(To think that you were the man of faith – when I am the one who kept it).

Rock at body, remember

This. This is love. Now I truly understand.