Letter to My Parents
Perhaps I should begin simply, with I love you.
Love of this kind is easy, born as it is in innocence,
part biological, part daily attachment. This love
that is peeled out of bedtime stories, day long hikes
among the redwood trees, morning campsites
and waking to the crisp chilly air by the creek,
and plans gone delightfully awry (tree houses half finished,
fried turkeys exploding oil, ponies lost forever in the park).
Love that is christened with late night battles
to keep the closet monster at bay, with trust built
in truths and tender half truths and sweet, playful lies,
with kisses of all shapes and sizes, with hugs before sleep.
And yet, love such as this, is vulnerable, too,
easily bruised and bloodied by angry words,
by fights unresolved, by the rationing
of that same love, which should be so easy.
I have been wounded, and I have done wounding.
So I say to you, I am sorry, and, I forgive you,
though in truth there is nothing to forgive.
We all walk this life as children;
we all know no more than we know.
We all carry our own doubts
bound in the spiders webs of our hearts
You loved in the way you loved;
you taught in the way you taught.
I will not burden you with blame,
for this woman I am -- 30 years old,
who lives in dreams and books,
layering the world in stories, who weeps
as easy as clouds spill over, who believes
she never does enough, never says enough,
never is enough, who longs for worldly wandering
instead of men -- this woman, who is me,
both broken and whole, both wounded and healed,
is all mine. I take responsibility, and wrapped in joy,
I am simply grateful that you were mine,
walking beside me along these unmapped roads
as we continue to learn together what it means to live.
Written for the 30 Day Letter Challenge - Day 3: To your parents.
Love of this kind is easy, born as it is in innocence,
part biological, part daily attachment. This love
that is peeled out of bedtime stories, day long hikes
among the redwood trees, morning campsites
and waking to the crisp chilly air by the creek,
and plans gone delightfully awry (tree houses half finished,
fried turkeys exploding oil, ponies lost forever in the park).
Love that is christened with late night battles
to keep the closet monster at bay, with trust built
in truths and tender half truths and sweet, playful lies,
with kisses of all shapes and sizes, with hugs before sleep.
And yet, love such as this, is vulnerable, too,
easily bruised and bloodied by angry words,
by fights unresolved, by the rationing
of that same love, which should be so easy.
I have been wounded, and I have done wounding.
So I say to you, I am sorry, and, I forgive you,
though in truth there is nothing to forgive.
We all walk this life as children;
we all know no more than we know.
We all carry our own doubts
bound in the spiders webs of our hearts
You loved in the way you loved;
you taught in the way you taught.
I will not burden you with blame,
for this woman I am -- 30 years old,
who lives in dreams and books,
layering the world in stories, who weeps
as easy as clouds spill over, who believes
she never does enough, never says enough,
never is enough, who longs for worldly wandering
instead of men -- this woman, who is me,
both broken and whole, both wounded and healed,
is all mine. I take responsibility, and wrapped in joy,
I am simply grateful that you were mine,
walking beside me along these unmapped roads
as we continue to learn together what it means to live.
Written for the 30 Day Letter Challenge - Day 3: To your parents.