
I’ve been thinking about childhood
Those fleeting puffs of foggy exhalation
Rising from a deer’s muzzle just before it darts
The what brought me heres
The what made me whats
The what I bought marred me where ats
Cheese grater logic
My childhood was not unusual
Don’t we always think this?
We could’ve been daddy’s little helper
Grabbing the shovel off the back of the truck
Listening to it scrape against the road
The smell of a bloated raccoon settling in our lungs
And on that lonely, country road
We defined the word normal
And perhaps, no not perhaps, but with certainty
We defined ourselves
It wasn’t until we made friends
Until we had sleepovers
Until they took us to their places of worship
That we learned the raccoons we carried in us were different
That some heard the tinkling of a shop keeper’s bell
Not a scraping shovel
And the tinkling brings the flavor of ice cream to mouth
While others heard the slick sound of leather
Gliding through belt loops
This brings a different, salty, coppery flavor to mouth
In books we learn that despite how different we appear
We are much more alike
We hug those broken characters
And in doing we hug ourselves
Happiness and joy have faces
Sadness and pain do not
One is photographed
The other is smothered beneath down pillows
Living your whole life allergic to feathers made you that unlikely to fly
So it’s in these exchanges
Sleepovers, books, comparing and contrasting
That we give face to our tenderness
Despite what mischievousness may come
Hold the gaze and be ready to embrace
Healing is necessary
Like a clean road, without death’s reminders, is necessary
Even if just in stretches
You can’t sustain the same facial expression forever
Except in death and in memory
And in photos
Don’t disassociate
Give it a face and a name
Anchor it in thought and emotion’s hue
Take ownership of the repercussions
Give it a face
[On one of my many trips to the reservation of my ancestors, my clean air fund, my gentle reminder that you can both be loved and feel just slightly out-of-place, as we half-breeds often become vaguely aware of, I was told not to draw a face on the cornhusk doll I was creating. It was a shared moment between me and my beautiful, Native-complete cousins, that suddenly, taking on a list due to course change or the water getting in, looked askew or askance. Don’t give it a face or it will get into mischief. You’ll find the doll in places you didn’t put it. This undoubtedly bothered me. The spookiness of it. Now, as I’m thinking of childhood, the elements of of it make me uneasy. Children. Faceless dolls. A clear warning against mischievousness. I suspect it’s settled into my middle aged frame. Trace minerals that either lend to stronger or weaker bones. I’d like to think I secreted a face on that cornhusk doll. As much for me as for you, both then and now]
I’ve missed you. You always manage to touch my heart in ways I can’t explain. I find this line particularly powerful – “Living your whole life allergic to feathers made you that unlikely to fly.” Be well, Erich.
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Thank you so much, Donna! I needed to hear that 😊
I haven’t written in a while and was feeling a bit rusty. It’s been crazy, as I’m sure it has for you, and I think I’ve dealt with it by just going through the motions. Work, eat, sleep, play with Colton (who’s 5 now), and repeat. It gets me by…I guess. I hope to write more regularly. 🤞
Thanks again, and I’m very glad you liked it 😊
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