Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Family History

24 August 2016, 12:45 am

It happens slowly,
all at once.
Those of them who know the story
leave those of us who know less.
We who know little
begin to pass on the narrative
to those who know nothing.
We deemed it fitting,
they were so young.
What would we tell them of the hurts,
of the anger,
resentment?

I find the story necessary,
now those who were there when I wasn't
begin to fall silent. Few now can tell me
what I don't already know.
Few now can give me what I never wanted,
what now I can't live without--
the mortar to hold together
the gross, obvious bricks I couldn't bury,
the wounds that never healed.

There are pains which cannot be relieved
by therapy, by understanding,
by the act of naming.
They must be lanced and drained,
but the tools for such grow few
as time dances away from us,
as do the Ones Who Know,
the Ones Who Might Bring Understanding,

the Ones Who Are No Longer.

3 comments:

Friday said...

I'm not sure what to say, honestly. I feel like my shadows echo yours.

Carie Maria Bowen said...

I'm certain they do.

Carie Maria Bowen said...

I'm certain they do.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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