My dad out mowing the lawn.

Me, a child, in the window, watching him my bedroom window upstairs.

His blonde hair reflecting the sun- wearing a tattered and worn white shirt, and those shiny black checked soccer shorts.

Maybe my childhood was so good it was traumatic.

My parents- my best friends.

My brother- my comrade.

Games. Imagination and magic.

Safety.

A solace. Within people I loved.

A den to return to after a long day of experiencing the outside world.

Why is it so heavy?

Perhaps it’s transition.

Acceptance.

I am not a child anymore.

I still have one inside of me, though.

And she did not expect anything that would follow.

Did I desert her?

Did I desert myself?

Could it have even been avoided?

I’m sure my brother has the inner world too.

The beginning of painful transformation came.

My world crumbled.

I’m sure a part of his did, too.

The hands of time unhealed wounds have had their way with us, since then.

I don’t know what’s next.

I never have. Even when I thought I did.

That is one thing, for sure. I do not know what’s next.

 

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