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.