phantom limb

boards blades wheels

catching air

glide spin turn

legs akimbo landing

 

gliding

In hindsight, I wish I had celebrated my body more, found a calling, an interest. But I always felt, was made to feel…not enough, never…enough., the things I found of interest were not worth time. 

The first fifteen years of gaslighting that was Mother filled every crevice. Sixteen years with the inattention of a husband committed only to himself shied me off connecting after it was done.

I’m hindsight, the continuance of the two years between should have been longer. At 53 I still struggle acknowledging my accomplishments and shrink at compliments from others. 

In hindsight is not a healthy place to live, but the present  can be difficult to celebrate. 

the Sun will fade

one two three four bruises 

low on my left leg

at and below the knee

I cannot say how they were got

only that they were noticed;

one deep cut on my shin

from a screwdriver dropping

the throbbing immediate 

another scar only I will know

another scar the Sun will fade

I fast forward through scenes

extraneous, evocatively meant

to elicit emotions but elicit 

sorrow for a life never-was

never-will manifest 

another scar only I will know

another  scar the Sun will fade

paint on hinges

takin’ paint off hinges

the hours they knew

stories past, stories lost

who will remember me?

who will recall?

packing photos, aside I set

things thought, things desired

people transient, moved along

kept where most in pockets of 

pocketless gowns never worn

anyways, 

               becoming layers of

paint on hinges

summer

Some days my mind thinks I’m still 34 on a fresh start from a sixteen year marriage newly ended. My body reminds me, that was nineteen years and over 3 degrees ago. When I…wanted, when I was…proving myself to that girl still digging out of a concrete foundation of low self-worth that was mother’s gaslighting. Now, my heart longs for those summers in the yard where I escaped to the sleepy drone of the cicada and the sun quickened my heart to an empathetic thrum in the heat.

love is a doing word

Down to the wire, I’m sore and exhausted, overwhelmed with the giving, selling, gifting, donating, and trashing, the parting with things I sometimes struggled to purchase in the first place, financially or emotionally. I am not in my bed familiar where the time between lovers grew until they were recollections. I am not in my house haunted with wonderings of the years and hours of those who lingered, meandered day and night before me. I feel I am…”not” for I am in a place void of history and seeped in transient comings and goings, one foot in, one foot out. Mostly, I no longer hear the pattering of feet, the scratching of nails on wood and tile. That was the thing that meant life was good. That is the thing I need to get back to. 

Massive Attack ~ “Teardrop”