All the Small Things

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” -Sylvia Plath,  The Bell Jar

***

Multitudes

I am

His calloused hands wrapped around my mother’s neck

boots that beat him while he laid shackled 

flipped kitchen tables and slammed doors 

and birthday cards that say, “I am proud of you.” 

sweat and bruises and grime that flow from a blue collar life like storm water 

Her nimble fingers as they braid my hair 

crashes and screams coming from her bedroom 

elbow noodles and tomato sauce that she spoons on my plate

her last five dollars sliding into the hands of another struggling mom outside of Walmart 

the gun against her temple and the lighter against the bed sheets  

and the sweeping relief when he walks away

Her tiny self tucked into a corner of her closet 

the pleading desperation of her voice when she asks to be left alone 

the horse statues she collected and the puzzles that she built 

the first words she spoke after three and a half years of silence 

and the times she wishes she was dead

His growing resentment

his hand around my arm, squeezing until a bruise blossoms

his tears that fell in private after hours of degradation 

the food I stole from his plate before he was forced to eat

and the years he spent feeling like no one cared 

His bones, broken by his mother’s hands and still carrying the scars

the taunting jeers of his father

the trauma of his incarceration

the found family who took him in 

and the lack of accountability for harming the people he loves

Her longing to be seen

the absence of her parents as they allowed her to be natured but sparingly nurtured 

the days, months, years when no one asked how she was doing or what she needed 

the humiliation of unwanted hands on her body at night 

the pain of slowly becoming invisible to herself 

Her aged and delicate hands firmly holding knitting needles, creating the power of comfort

the full embrace of the unknown 

the independence she forged among eight siblings while a war waged around her 

Her voice through the phone: I love you, my star

My reservoir of compassion for the people who did the hurting 

the gentle softness of my body and the steadiness of my voice 

My friends gathered around my kitchen table and the corners of my mouth quirking up into a secret smile

I am, I am, I am.