Endings… and Rebirths

In my heart, winter scribbles 

one more calming

tale of rebirth in the making-- 

pages and pages of lived endings,

showing that some deaths are just

another beginning. 

photo by Fabrice Villard, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #158: Prioritize), where we are invited to “prioritize”. The first thing that came to mind, when I saw the word, was a list of all the things I have (want?) to do, and the best way to arrange them from least to most important. The task terrified me. So, I went for something smaller (or just abstract). Winter always brews melancholy in the depths of my heart and skull (and a whole lot of pain in my joints). Nature goes so quiet, so many things die. And too often, it takes me a while to remember that winter isn’t just a cold ending, but the lull that fuels the beginning of a spring to come. So, I’ll focus on that: I will remind my flesh and spirit and bones and me that winter is a death that brings rebirth… eventually.

Holiday Furies

I will always
miss those long-ago years
when my gut was strong,
strong as my heart is wild. 

I will always
miss those long-ago years
when pain was an abstract,
not concrete in my bones. 

I will always
miss so many things, but 

I will never miss you,
hope eater. I will never
miss your bullying feasts-- 

my young fury and I
standing in our dark, hoping
for better years to come,
when you’d gorge yourself
on loneliness.

When I was very young--and not in charge of my life--I couldn’t refuse accompanying my parental unit to a “holiday celebration” at a relative’s house. The relative in question was a monster, who threw their wealth in the faces of those less fortunate. They were so subtle about it, that even a kid could see right through their bullshit. Year after year, that beast (passing for human) ruined people’s holidays. My poem was inspired by a memory: One of the younger cousins wouldn’t stop crying, after she realized that none of the gifts being opened belonged to her. Grinning, the hosting beast told the child that she was sure her mamá would have something for her at home. I saw the child’s mother’s eyes shine with unspilled shame. I glared at the beast, and thought: One day, no one will come to your shit parties. You’ll be all alone. And you’ll be sorry. Not very sweet, I suppose. But what can I say? I save my sweetness for people who don’t have a black hole where their humanity should be. 

Speaking of awesome people, I hope you have a Holiday Season full of all the good things your brain and heart have been hoping for, and a New Year that brings wonder and goodwill. Be happy. Be kind. Be loving (especially to yourself). Be hopeful.

Hope is much stronger than rage, too… such a powerful little word, hope.

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #157: Holiday Anxieties), where we are invited to write about holiday anxieties. I’ve never felt anxious about the winter holidays, so I wrote about the holiday rage my younger self simmered in for years…